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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26832802">Our Private Crises</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleepingKnight/pseuds/TheSleepingKnight'>TheSleepingKnight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Parahumans Series - Wildbow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Gen, Minor AU, Murder Mystery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, This is a soft Mirrors reboot, Thriller, Unhealthy Relationships</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:47:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,159</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26832802</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleepingKnight/pseuds/TheSleepingKnight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When the bodies fall, the shattered Brockton Bay protectorate must come together to solve the murder before the killer escapes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Taylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver/Lisa Wilbourn | Tattletale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>217</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Lisa</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Lisa Wilbourn wakes up in pain.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Subject: Oracle.</strong> </strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Playing back recording…</strong> </strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> Hey, doc. How’s it been?</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> You don’t know? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> Testing me right off the bat, huh? No, I’m not using my power. I remember the rule, doc. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> Just wanted to make sure. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> Mh. Like it’d be smart to use that on my therapist instead of saving it for, you know, actual problems.<br/><br/><strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> I can’t imagine how torturous it must be, having to constantly remind yourself not to use your power. </em>
</p><p>[There is a bitter laugh.]<br/><em><br/><strong><strong>O: Torturous? </strong></strong>Nah. That’s...<strong><strong>annoying</strong></strong>. <strong><strong>Torturous</strong></strong> is a cell, a thousand questions, and a gun.</em></p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> Oracle, you don’t have to talk about it. Not if you don’t want to. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> No, I… I want to. </em>
</p><p>[There is a brief silence.]</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> At first, I kind of thought it was karma, you know? Ever since I ran away from home, I’d been racking up some serious red in my ledger. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> You were just trying to survive, Oracle. You shouldn’t beat yourself up for stealing when you had no other options. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> It wasn’t only stealing and we both know it, doc. I ruined people’s lives for profit and for pleasure. It was… <strong> <strong>fun</strong> </strong> , feeling in control. So when they grabbed me, part of me thought: hey, maybe this is penance. Then I got thrown in the cell and I realized it was purgatory instead. And… maybe I could have handled it. For a little while. I’m— I <strong> <strong>was </strong> </strong> good at gathering info. But when I started hitting my limits, he...found a new way to motivate me.<br/><br/><strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> Taylor. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> Pretty, hopelessly depressed, and the only person besides him I was allowed to see. How could I resist? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> One might say it was a good thing you and Taylor had each other. I can’t imagine how bad the isolation would have gotten without her. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> One might say it would have been better if we, you know, <strong> <strong>hadn’t gotten fucking kidnapped. </strong> </strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> I— </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> It’s— fine. Sorry. I know what you meant. Just...shit, doc. Even if I hadn’t been partly responsible for getting Taylor locked in that hellhole with me, she’s also...you know, my girlfriend. And yes, I <strong> <strong>know </strong> </strong> that the way we met isn’t any healthy basis for a relationship. I know, okay? But— fuck, I need her. I think I would have gone mad without her. I was down there so long I honestly <strong> <strong>forgot </strong> </strong> what grass smelled like. I’d forgotten, doc. And then she comes down there and...god, this makes me sound awful— I would never have wished that on anyone, but when I saw her… I was happy. I was <strong> <strong>happy </strong> </strong> someone else was down there. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> Not wanting to be alone in misery isn’t a sin, Oracle. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> Hate the sin, love the sinner. </em>
</p><p>[There is a dry snort.]</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> I wonder if in a few years, we’ll be attending some kind of… I don’t know, meeting, and people will ask how we met, and we’ll have to tell them our first kiss was in a cell. And that I cried the first time she let me hug her because I’d forgotten how wonderful human contact was. </em>
</p><p>[There is a sob.]</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> God, Taylor. What have I done to her? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> You helped her get out, Oracle. You kept the two of you sane. You saved her life.<br/><br/><strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> She’s borderline agoraphobic, doc. The first time we went out, she had a panic attack from the crowd, and I was right there along with her. And she still blames herself for… everything. Even though it was pretty clearly my fault. </em>
</p><p>[Oracle makes a dry cough.]</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> I’m not surprised Armsmaster’s been avoiding me, I basically cost him his reputation. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> You think he’s been avoiding you?<br/><br/><strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> I feel like I’ve barely seen him since… well, since Echidna. When he responded to our little distress call, it ended with— with so much death. And all of it my fault. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> Oracle, if you hadn’t, you and Taylor would probably still be— </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> I don’t regret it. Or. I regret Echidna being unleashed. And everything that followed. But killing Coil? No. He— he was going to kill her. She was the— the only person I had left, at that point. When he had a gun to her head the only thing I could think was how if he pulled that trigger I was gonna be alone again. So I pulled mine first. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> No one blames you for saving Taylor’s life. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> I know. And that’s part of the problem. Because I’d do it again, doc. If it came down to it, I think I’d kill anyone who threatened her. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>O: </strong> </strong> …I’m done. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>End of session.</strong> </strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cla-click.</em>
</p><hr/><p>Lisa Wilbourn wakes up, and for a few moments, she’s not in pain. She’s learned to treasure these moments in-between sleep and true wakefulness, before everything catches back up to her. Then her body shifts, and it all comes right right back: fireworks light up her nerves, poisons burn her brain, muscles ache and throb in a familiar song. She slowly rolls out of bed, fumbling for her phone. The screen blares <strong>4:14 PM</strong> in the darkness of her room (and even that much light feels like a needle, drilling right through her corneas) and she groans to herself. <em><em>Way </em></em>later then she’d intended to nap, and yet she <em>still</em> felt as if a single shout would shred her grey matter like tissue paper.</p><p>She staggers into her shower and the cold shock clears her head, but does nothing for the aches— she’d long since given up on some of them. Honestly, she doesn’t notice them, most of the time. After she’s wrangled her hair into something presentable and managed to stare down her reflection long enough, she emerges into the halls of PHQ once more. Despite her slow familiarity with the building layout, the faux-white walls of the oil rig remind her far too much of the deceitful shading of hospitals—saccharine in nature. <em>Look at how strong I am<em>, </em></em>they say, false shine hiding the cracks in the foundation, the damage. <em>Look at how I stand firm against the ocean. </em></p><p>Erosion — a slow unbecoming by gradual destruction, the world wearing you down to your bones.</p><p>Lisa Wilbourn walks down the halls of the oil rig, thoughts circling, chasing, tripping, and eventually returning to the same conclusion: she has about an hour before her shift and has no idea what to do with it. Idly, she checks her phone again and to her dismay, she realizes that she’s left it on silent<em><em>, </em></em>and Taylor’s sent her 15 texts in the past few minutes.</p><p>Today 3:54</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Hey, Lisa.</p>
  <p>I, um.</p>
  <p>I have something I wanna show you if you're not busy.</p>
  <p>If you are, that's fine!</p>
  <p>Really, no harm done.</p>
  <p>It’s not that important.</p>
  <p>I know you need your rest</p>
  <p>I hope you feel better.</p>
  <p>I’m sorry about what happened this morning.</p>
  <p>I panicked.</p>
  <p>I’m sorry.</p>
  <p>I hope you’re not mad but I get it if you don’t wanna talk.</p>
  <p>I’m gonna stop talking now.</p>
</blockquote><p>Wolf-fucking horseballs. Why didn’t she wake up sooner? Fuckity fuck fuck. Fingers flying, she lets Taylor know that she’s fine, she’d love to come over, and that she’s barely even thought about this morning. (It’s not really a lie, she’s had other things on her mind.) So she turns on her heel and makes her way back towards the personal quarters— this route, she knows particularly well. She’s done it nearly every day since they moved in.</p><p>She rapidly arrives at Taylor’s door, knocking swiftly. The bespectacled, black-haired girl opens up, eyes wide. The bags under her eyes are somehow worse than Lisa’s own, dark rims beneath darker browns.</p><p>“Hey, Lisa,” she says, voice small enough to slip in between Lisa’s ribs and sink into her heart.</p><p>“Hey, Taylor.” Lisa leans in and gives the girl a quick kiss, and as always, Taylor goes very still (like a puppet, limbs slack and strings freely given. She was given a shell of a girl and told to fix her, but all she could do was make it dance to a new tune.) Lisa breaks contact and does her best at a cheerful smile, an expression she is still unaccustomed to. “I believe you had something to show me?”</p><p>“Mh? Oh, uh yeah! Come in.” She steps aside to let Lisa into her quarters, and they’re just as Lisa remembers them: nearly a mirror of her own. Spartan in design, with little accessories or belongings decorating the shelves. The result of only being released to the world for a few months. Nothing new, except—</p><p>...what the fuck?</p><p>Lisa’s standing in the corner, resting against a wall with her arms crossed, a blank smile on her face. Except, she isn’t. She’d just entered the room with Taylor, who’s grinning at her even as she takes off her glasses and pops on her helmet.</p><p>“Is that…”</p><p>“One of my drones? Yep!” Taylor chirps, sliding on the helmet, and then Other-Lisa gets up and <em>walks towards her<em>, </em></em>hair perfectly shifting in accordance to gravity, edges of her stylized coat flowing in such a way that had Lisa’s mind reeling, and she has to desperately clamp down on the edges of her power creeping up around her mind— she really doesn’t need a debilitating headache at the moment.</p><p>“Wow.” Lisa swallows, watching her neck mimic the motion, bottle glass green eyes staying locked on her own, the shade exact to the last fleck. Hesitantly, she raises her hand up, and again, the motion was perfectly copied, down to the slight twitching of her fingers. Digits brush, and—<em>Jesus<em>, </em></em>that feels entirely too real.</p><p>“Honestly, Taylor.” Lisa shakes her head, turning to her girlfriend, who’s beaming under the praise. “How in the world did you do this?” Instead of answering, she just keeps grinning.</p><p>“It wasn’t easy,” her own voice chirps, false irises bright with amusement. It’s a damn near perfect mimicry, to the point where there’s more than a slight surge of deja-vu. “It’s nowhere near combat-ready, but I got the prototype working with Armsmaster's help, at least. The hard-light shell can even replicate tactile sensation. It needs a lot of power, and to get one-to-one actions, you have to wear this headset— I’ve installed mine into my helmet. We’re thinking we can use it to do stuff like bomb-disarming or tasks that require more finesse that my old controller couldn’t do. It takes a lot of concentration, but… it’s cool, right?” With a wink the hologram fades, and she’s staring at the sleek steel, mannequin-like form of Taylor’s drones. She’s long since lost any sense of discomfort that she originally had with the wiry, humanoid robots: saving your life will adjust your perceptions fast. Speaking of...</p><p>“Taylor, this is incredible and I’m proud that you made a breakthrough.” She walks over to the black-haired girl and bops her on the nose. “But don’t think it’ll distract me from the fact that you need to go to your session.”</p><p>Taylor’s face sinks, a ship at sea with cannon-holes blown through its hull.</p><p>“I’m…” Taylor swallows. “I’m sorry about this morning. I just— I wasn’t thinking clearly, and—”</p><p>“Hey. It’s okay. I get it. I really, <em>really</em> do.” Lisa promises, keeping steady eye contact. “But this is something you have to do by yourself.”</p><p>“Why?” Taylor asks, curling in on herself. “There’s nothing in my life you don’t know about. And I—” She hesitates, clearly struggling with the words. “I… I want you there if I’m going to talk about it. I need you to be there if I’m going to talk about it<em><em>.</em></em>”</p><p>“You can’t rely on me, Taylor.” Lisa says it as gently as possible. “I wanna be there for you as much as I can, but going to your sessions would be unfair to Yamada and to you. She’s not a couples counselor, and… if you need to talk about <em>me</em>, I can’t be there.”</p><p>Taylor’s eyes go wide behind her visor. “I— I have nothing to talk to her about you!” She rushes out. “I mean if— if I did it would only be good things, I <em>promise<em>—</em></em>” Lisa envelops the girl in a hug, and Taylor sinks into it. Fingers find their way into Taylor’s hair, and she starts running down the length of curly black, admiring the silky-smoothness even now.</p><p>“I know,” she coos, “I know. But even if you did, you know I wouldn’t be mad, okay? You’re free to say whatever you like in there.”</p><p>“Do you talk about me?” Taylor asks, and then freezes, genuine fear flashing across her face (Lisa hates that expression, hates it hates it hates it.) “I mean— You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“I <em>do</em> talk about you,” Lisa admits after a moment of hesitation, going for half-truths (they are more reliable than lies) “but mostly I just say how glad I am that I know you.” She breaks the hug to give Taylor a smile, and the dark-haired girl returns a feeble one. Lisa raises a hand to her girlfriend’s face, and Taylor leans into the touch. A thumb, brushing across skin, and it’s still a marvel, the texture of another human being. Lisa thinks she’ll never tire of it. (It’s almost addicting, the tactile sensation. She thinks she could spend hours, merely exploring Taylor.)</p><p>“Now, how about you get this back where it’s supposed to be, go to therapy, and later we can maybe sneak away from everyone else?”</p><p>Taylor’s eyes light up, and Lisa can’t help but chuckle. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She leans in for another kiss, and after another moment of dreadful stillness, Taylor returns it. Then the two separate, and Taylor leads her drone out of her room and in the direction of the garage— she might be a little late, but Yamada shouldn’t mind. It’s not until Taylor vanishes down the hall that Lisa lets herself sigh, aches crawling up her spine.</p><p>She doesn’t know how to fix this.</p><p>Her feet end up taking her a familiar route, deeper into headquarters, navigating towards the rec room. LED lights paint the world grayscale shades until she finally arrives at one of the few splashes of color in this place. The Ward’s rec room was one of the few that managed to escape from the overbearing atmosphere that permeated the rest of the building, decorated with bright couches, gaming consoles, wallpaper, and most importantly, a coffee maker that had stickers slapped on it to hell and back. Manning the most coveted device in the entire building is Dean, helmet off and eyes cast downwards, sandy-blonde hair hastily wept to the side, a clear result of helmet hair.</p><p>“Hey, pauldrons.” Lisa strolled up, not bothering to hide her exhaustion. Rather pointless, with him. “Pour me a cup?”</p><p>“Hey, Lise.” He gives her a grin even as he hammers in a few buttons. “Have a good nap?”</p><p>“No, but I did get Taylor to agree to go to her session, so...that’s something.”</p><p>“That <em>is</em> something,” Dean agrees. “Now we can invite her to the post-therapy bitching parties.”</p><p>“There’s post-therapy bitching parties?” She raises an eyebrow. “And <em>I</em> haven’t been invited?”</p><p>“They only happen when no-one is listening.” He faux-whispers as he hands her a mug. She takes a shot of sweet, sweet caffeine and barely even notices the burning sensation. God, that’s some good shit.</p><p>“How are the others?” she finds herself asking. The knightly teen shrugs, an impressive sight in full-armor.</p><p>“Dennis is…well, you’ve seen him. Weld’s been doing his best not to aggravate him, but that just makes him angrier.”</p><p>“Mh.” Lisa nods. “I was hoping he’d have at least warmed up to Weld, by now.”</p><p>“Give it time,” Dean advises. “He can’t stay angry at Weld or Flechette forever.” Lisa’s already shaking her head, replaying some of the scenes from the last two months in her mind.</p><p>“I think we may have to change strategies. He’s allowed to grieve, but if he’s still giving them shit for simply being called in, then it could wind up leading to something happening in the field.”<br/><br/>“I <em>know</em> that, Lisa. Trust me, I know. But Dennis...we’ve been friends for years. He needs time to work it out. He doesn’t appreciate other people getting up in his business.”</p><p>“And here we are, talking about it behind his back,” Lisa points out, taking a large slurp of her coffee, to Dean’s obvious annoyance.</p><p>“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, you approached <em><em>me </em></em>on trying to get this team talking to each other.” Dean takes his own sip of coffee, silent as the dead.</p><p>“Guilty as charged. You know that I’m right, though.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t listen to you if you weren’t.” Dean lets out a harsh breath. “We got so much work to do, Lisa.”</p><p>“Mh.” She makes a mental note to collaborate with Dennis, once they’d graduated beyond sardonic sniping, on what they could do for the local empath. “Yeah, I know.” She gives the kid a half hug. “Make sure not to overextend, okay? You’ve already done so much for me and Taylor.”</p><p>“Please.” Dean gives her a small smile. “Haven’t I told you that it wasn’t a big deal?”</p><p>“Only you could think that an entire apartment wasn’t a big deal, rich boy.” A very nice, <em><em>expensive </em></em>apartment, one that Lisa could have only dreamed of living in, when she was still on the run. It was quiet, quaint and pretty much perfect for her and Taylor’s needs.</p><p>“Oi.”</p><p>“Oh, my bad, <em>bourgeoisie</em> boy.”<br/><br/>“Ha!” Dean gives her terrible joke a chuckle. “Fair enough, I suppose.” She’s not entirely sure of where that conversation would have gone, had the elevator warning light not <em><em>dinged </em></em>to life. A scant minute later, Clockblocker, Flechette, and Weld stroll into the rec room, fresh from the warzone of Brockton Bay. Clock’s armor had scorch marks on it, and Weld looked a little...well, misshapen, metallic muscles slightly bent in places. Flechette was the only one who appeared unharmed.</p><p>“Well,” Clock drones, pulling off his helmet, ginger hair flopping down, soaked with sweat. “What are you two mother hens up to?”</p><p>“Discussing your Zac-Efron-esque emergence from the chrysalis of puberty, of course,” Lisa drones, and Dennis gives a shit-eating grin.</p><p>“Holy shit, Lisa. You actually watched it?”</p><p>“Yes, and I do believe you owe me fifty bucks.”<br/><br/>“<em>Fifty<em>?” </em></em>Dennis gawks. “The bet was you watching all of season one without having a stroke for twenty-five.”</p><p>“Yes.” Lisa acknowledges. “The other twenty-five is for the mental damages that it caused me.”</p><p>“...you know, that’s fair. Hey, Dean, you got twenty-five?”</p><p>“I refuse to fuel your obsession with watching terrible shows,” Dean states, shaking his head.<br/><br/>“You watched <em>The Room</em> with me, you have no legs to stand on. Speaking of—”</p><p>“No.” Lisa shakes her head. “I refuse to watch The Room. The main girl’s name is also Lisa and I won't open myself to the litany of jokes I’m sure you’ve got saved up.”</p><p>“...I don’t think I could make any without HR getting on my ass,” Dennis drawls.</p><p>“...What’s the Room?” Weld asks, looking utterly baffled by the rapid-fire exchange. Dennis’s face goes flat even as he rolls his eyes.</p><p>“God, Weld. Are you seriously that much of a fucking boy scout?”</p><p>“Hey.” Dean takes a step forward, face stern— and for a moment, Dennis almost looked chastised. “Language, Clock.”</p><p>“...Are’st thou seriously that much of a fucking—”<br/><br/>“<em>Clock<em>.” </em></em></p><p>“Yeah, yeah whatever,” the boy huffs. “...Sorry. I don’t suppose you got around to watching <em>The Artist?” </em></p><p>Dean, and to Lisa’s surprise, <em><em>Weld </em></em>nods, and the two begin discussing the film, much to Dennis’s barely hidden consternation. Lisa decides that she’s far too pretty for that nerd shit and drags aside Flechette.</p><p>“How are you doing, Lily?” she asks, pulling them into the corner couch. “Oh, you know.” Flechette shrugs. “City’s a wreck. We’ve been having pretty frequent run-ins with what remains of the Empire— they’re desperate to not lose more territory to Lung. Today was Cricket, Alabaster, and Crusader.” The girl scowled. “I hate Crusader. Actually, I hate all of them, but Crusader in particular is annoying.”</p><p>“That’s the nazi with the ghost legion, as I recall?”<br/><br/>“Essentially. He’s...a lot. Multiples the amount of people you have to keep track of, scary fast.” She shrugs. “We managed to not die, at least. That’s something.”<br/><br/>“It’s the best thing,” Lisa assures. “But how are you <em>doing<em>, </em></em>Lily?” The Ward’s shoulders slump.</p><p>“I’m… I’m fine.” She gives a valiant effort at it, a whole smile that almost manages to reach her eyes.</p><p>“Mh. You wanna stick with that, or…”</p><p>“Heh.” Her fake exuberance dies, reborn as something far more sardonic. “No point in lying to the thinker, huh?”</p><p>“Well, no, but it doesn’t take a power rating to see it, Lily. No offense.”</p><p>“Mh.” She sighs again. “I’m… nervous, I suppose.”</p><p>“About?” Lisa prompts.</p><p>“Everything,” the forlorn girl confesses. “This team, this city, M-my own stuff.” Lisa sees the stumble, decides not to push.</p><p>“Well, if you ever want someone to talk to about any of it, I’m here. And I do mean <em>any<em>… </em></em>of it.” Lily’s eyes meet hers, wide with surprise and hope alike, and Lisa knows she got the message. The blonde gives her a smile.</p><p>“I’m ace,” she whispers. “And pretty committed, but still. Let me know.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Lily whispers back, taking a moment to hesitate. “I…” The elevator light blares once more, and all but one of the Wards put their helmets (in Lisa’s case, a domino) back on. And once again, it was all for nothing, as it was only their superiors.</p><p>Wait, what?</p><p>“Armsmaster, sir,” Gallant said, tilting his head, no doubt as confused as the rest of them. When was the last time Armsmaster had even been <em>down</em> here? To say nothing of Militia, Dauntless, and Velocity. “Something the matter?”</p><p>“No, Gallant,” The stoic leader of the PRT returned. “We just—”</p><p>“This was the closest coffee maker,” Velocity said, already manhandling the machine. “We’ll be out of your hair in a moment, don’t mind us.” He gives them a grin. “Unless there <em><em>is </em></em>a problem?”</p><p>“No, sir,” Gallant reports. “We were just catching up.”</p><p>“Didn’t three of you just come from patrol?” Militia asks, reclining against the wall. The obvious three nodded, and Militia quickly enveloped them in a conversation about routes and possible adjustments, dragging Dauntless into it. Velocity had engaged Dean at the coffeemaker, chatting about something she couldn’t quite follow, leaving Lisa...with no alternative.</p><p>Her eyes hopefully meet Armsmaster’s— it’s hard to tell, behind the visor. He meets the gaze, for a moment. And for a few moments longer, Lisa wonders if he’s going to simply steal Velocity’s mug and leave. He drifts over to her.</p><p>“Hello, Lisa.” His tone is the very definition of neutral: unremarkable, bordering on bored.</p><p>“Hi.” She’s not entirely sure why it comes out as a whisper. “I— Hello, sir.”</p><p>“How have you been?” Nothing to go off of, nothing, nothing. She forces her power down, information trickling in— not unless necessary, not unless necessary. She clings to that phrase like a lifeline.</p><p>“Oh, you know. Fine. Trying to keep busy.”</p><p>“Good. Keeping busy is…good.”</p><p>“You’d know.” Fuck! “I mean— You’ve been pretty busy yourself, sir. I’ve barely seen you, you’ve been rounding up so many villains in the last few months.” <em>Get ahold of yourself, damnit!</em></p><p>“Not nearly enough.” For once, there’s a discernible emotion in his voice: tepid anger. “Sometimes it feels like for every one I catch, five more move into Brockton the next hour.” The implacable man lets loose a sigh.</p><p>“Nature of crime-fighting, isn’t it?” Lisa offers. “Fighting criminals on our current scale is a deterrent, not a solution.”</p><p>“...yes,” he agrees, and has his perpetually still face dipped down, slightly? <em>Shit<em>. </em></em>“It is.”</p><p>“Ah— I’m…” She flounders for words, and then decides to go for the truth. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m...tired.”</p><p>He stands utterly still, as imposing and solid as a marble statue, depicting some hero of old. And then he moves, and a hand comes to rest on her shoulder as he kneels down. It feels impossibly heavy, nerves screaming <em>you've fucked up you've fucked up.</em></p><p>“I think we’re all tired,” he admits. “I know how hard the last few months have been, for you above all. And I am… I know that you’ve done good work with us. And I’m sure you’ll continue to.”</p><p>“I will,” she promises, as fast as she can. “I— I want to do what I can to help.”</p><p>“Good. Keep that attitude in mind, and the Protectorate will be glad to have you.” He glances away, and for once there’s an upwards curve to his lips. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I need to get a mug, or I’ll be waiting for an hour.”</p><p>Okay. Not everything was broken. She can still fix this. She can still—</p><p>An alarm rips through her world, deafeningly loud, shrieking in the same abject terror that her brain has reverted to at the assault of noise. Piercing purple lights blare from the emergency system, and doors automatically slam shut, locking with a definitive <em>hiss<em>. </em></em>Everyone slams their helmets back on for a third time, looking to each other with now untrusting eyes.</p><p>Purple meant someone had triggered a Master-Stranger alarm.</p><p>Taylor.</p><p>Oh god.</p><p>Taylor was out there. Lisa breaks for the door. Was Taylor the source of the alarm? What if she was locked with Yamada? What if Yamada was the stranger what if Taylor was dying right this second she had to find her she had to save her—</p><p>“Oracle!” Armsmaster’s voice cuts through the haze. “We have to follow procedure!” “Taylor.” She finds herself gasping, struggling against his grip, desperately trying to free her arm from one of his mercenaries, straining for a weapon, something <em>anything</em> to stop what’s about to happen.</p><p>
  <em><em>“</em>Lisa<em>?” </em></em>
</p><p>She has to save her. She has to. She wrestles out of his grip, limbs lashing out, she has to get the gun she needs to get the gun she has to stop him before—</p><p>“Lisa!”</p><p>She bowls over, pain flaring in her gut, but… the panic is muted. She’s not particularly feeling anything at the moment, numbness sweeping over her like an ocean wave, drowning her frantic thoughts. Armored hands take hers.</p><p>“Lisa?” Dean whispers, clad in armor. “Are you with me?”</p><p>Lisa does her best to wipe the tears away. “Yeah,” she croaks. The effect of Dean’s power is already fading away, <em>shame</em> crawling up her neck, running red in her veins. “Yeah. S-sorry. I’m good now.”</p><p>“Mh.” Dean knows she’s lying, but the rest don’t. So… it’s fine. They’ve already seen enough. “Okay. Do you know where you are?”</p><p>“Yes,” Lisa bites out, yanking her hands back. “We’re still in the goddamn rec room, and the fucking alarm is going off.”</p><p>“Lisa.” Armsmaster steps forward, what’s visible of his face a granite wall. “I need you to give me this week’s password.”</p><p>“Sir, she just had—”<br/><br/>“I <em>know<em>, </em></em>Gallant. Still.”</p><p>“Piper PA-twenty four,” Lisa rattles off, already mortified enough. She wants to crawl into the innards of the couch and never come out (she wants to grab the pistol flickering in Miss Militia's hands and fire until she’s sure that Coil’s dead.)</p><p>“Okay.” Armsmaster takes a deep breath. “Okay. We stay here until contacted. We don’t know the cause of the alarm yet, but I’m sure that we’ll—”</p><p>They hear it— the sound of the elevator sliding up. Someone’s bypassed the lockdown. Miss Militia instantly switches to a simple shotgun, kneeling and taking aim, flanked by Velocity. Dauntless and Armsmaster stand at either side of the door, with Flechette taking position behind Militia, Clockblocker ready to freeze the elevator itself, Weld moving to guard any possible attack aimed at her or Gallant.</p><p>Metal grinding against metal, mechanics whirling.</p><p>The door slides open.</p><p>“Identity yourself!” Armsmaster barks.</p><p>“Myrmekes!” Taylor shouts, hands up in the air. “Piper PA-twenty four!”</p><p>After a tense few moments, Armsmaster relaxes his halberd, and the rest of them follow. Lisa just barely waits before she darts forwards and almost tackles Taylor, forcing herself not to cry right then and there.</p><p>“Hey,” Taylor says, voice warbly with barely-contained relief. “Hey.” <br/><br/>“Taylor, what happened?” Lisa asks, checking for injuries, and finding only bloodshot eyes and dried tears.</p><p>“Why did you break protocol?” Armsmaster demands, stepping forwards. “You know you’re supposed to stay in the room you were in when the alarm triggers. You know that—”</p><p>“I know! I know, I’m sorry!” Taylor rushes out, not letting go of Lisa. “But I couldn’t stay there, with the— the body.” Lisa pulls away just enough to make eye contact. “I’m the one who called it— the alarm. I was— I was putting away my drones, and then I went up to Yamada’s office, and that’s when I found her— her body.” She swallows. “Yamada’s <em>dead<em>. </em></em>Someone killed her.”</p><p>Silence rules the rec room for a few moments, as everyone drinks in the statement. And then a few seconds more, as all eyes turn to Armsmaster, whose face has completed its journey into marble. Eventually, with a voice deeper than a grave, he speaks.</p><p>“Show us.”</p><p>Ten parahumans gather in the elevator. The doors slide shut.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Well, this is has been a long time coming. I had the idea for this fic back in March, and only after months of out-lining and preparing and panicking, it's finally ready to begin in earnest. Here's hoping you enjoy this soft-sort-of reboot of Mirrors. I'd like to thank everyone on my server, Juff, and my other betas for helping me bring this to fruition. </p><p>Let's begin.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dennis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Aside from everything, he's fine.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong>Subject: Clockblocker.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Playing back recording…</em> </strong>
</p><p><strong> <em>C: </em> </strong> <em>Hi, Mrs.Yamada.</em></p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Hello, Clockblocker. How are you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>C: </strong>I’m fine. There’s a smudge on my helmet that’s annoying me, but I’m… </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>C: </strong>Actually, you know what? I’m <strong>not </strong>fine. I’m really fucking depressed because three of my best friends fucking died to that massive fucking meat monster. I’m <strong>not </strong>fine.</em>
</p><p>[there is a slight pause.]</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Did it feel good to get that out?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>C:</strong>...I don’t know. I’m just…they were my friends. Chris, Carlos, Missy...Sophia. God, am I even allowed to call her my friend anymore? Taylor...triggered because of what she did. I didn’t even have time to properly grieve for her before <strong>that </strong>bombshell got dropped and I...fucking hell, I took it out on her. I shouted at the girl who can barely muster a word. I’m such a fucking asshole and I know it. I know it! I’m a huge dick. But…</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>But?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>C: </strong>I’m just so <strong>angry, </strong>Mrs. Yamada. All the time. No matter what I do— and I’ve been trying the breathing exercises you’ve talked about, I really have. But I just… stay angry, and it leaks out of me. I don’t want it to. I want it to stay locked up inside but it always ends up coming out.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>It’s only natural for you to feel angry, Clockblocker. You’ve lost so much. It’s part of the process. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>C: </strong>Yeah? Can you tell that to everyone else? Because they— they don’t say it, but I know they’re <strong>thinking </strong>that they want the...<strong>old </strong>me back. The one who laughed. And I hate that so much. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Why do you feel that way?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>C: </strong>Because they hated that too! No matter what I do, people are upset at me! First, it’s “oh, Clock, you need to knock it off and stop using humor to conceal your true feelings. No one knows if you’re genuine!” And then when I actually <strong>do </strong>that, everyone goes, “Wow, Clock! You’re a real asshole! I wish you’d make more jokes again!” Like...what the hell am I supposed to do? People hate it when I try and play things off, but they hate it even more when I’m honest. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>So you feel rejected?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>C: </strong>I don’t know what I feel. I’m feeling too much. I want to <strong>stop </strong>feeling things, for a bit. Before…</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Before what?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>C: </strong>Ever since Echidna— Echidna had this. Thing. She’d do. Where she’d swallow you whole, and you’d… see things, inside of her. And ever since then I’ve just been this… I don’t know. It’s like all of my emotions are dialed up to eleven. And sometimes I just get this… this overwhelming need to get them <strong>out. </strong>That if I could just get them out of me maybe I could slow down and— and think. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>How would you get them out, Clockblocker? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>C:</strong>...I don’t know. I just. Sometimes I just get this sudden urge to just...smash something, you know? To break something. Someone, even. When I’m… when I’m in a fight is the only time I feel in control, because everything I’m feeling— it’s all <strong>out there</strong> instead of inside my head, and I can <strong>think </strong>for once. I don’t feel in control unless I’m fighting something.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>C: </strong>I...have a patrol coming up. I need to get going. Sorry.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>End of session.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cla-click.</em>
</p><hr/><p>Mrs. Yamada had bled a lot before she died. A wet shade somewhere between crimson and black is dripping all over the freshly installed carpet, a scar on the newborn sanctuary of the PHQ. Her corpse was slumped against the wall, a puppet with its strings cut (like Missy, rebar erupting through her gut, and he’d <em>tried </em>to get the blood to stop, he’d <em>tried.</em>) The massive gut wound in her stomach had bled her out— it would have been excruciating. He considered himself lucky her head was rolled down, saving him from looking into clammy, dead eyes (<em>Missy, please oh god please.</em>) The rest of the room seems almost as if it had been imported around the body, utterly untouched from when Dennis had visited only hours ago. The only other indications that something had gone wrong are the doctor's chair, knocked on it's side, and the angry gouges on the wall, letters carved in large swaths:</p><p>
  <em> <strong>S H E  L I E D. </strong> </em>
</p><p>“...s bad.” He just tunes into Dauntless, speaking to Armsmaster, who hasn’t moved an inch since they entered Yamada’s office. “We need to call in the mortician.”</p><p>“No.” Armsmaster shook his head. “We’re being risky enough breaking protocol as is, I’m not going to order anyone else to do it. We have to maintain the floor lockdown until we have no other choice.”</p><p>“How are we supposed to figure out what happened without them?”</p><p>“I’m qualified to perform an autopsy,” Armsmaster states. His lips curl up, but there’s no humor in the expression. “As it happens, I got certified not too long ago: I was angling to be put on an S9 taskforce, and that was one of the required skills.”</p><p>Miss Militia’s eyes are still locked on the writing on the wall, and she inches closer. In her hand, she flickers through knives, the energy rippling as emerald light expands and shifts and changes to her will, before she finally lands on a jagged, lightning-shaped blade (roughly eight inches long, give or take) and sinks it neatly into the wall.</p><p>“This doesn’t feel like your average Stranger attack,” she murmurs. “Why kill a therapist? Why make it so <em>obvious </em>instead of concealing the crime?”</p><p>“Do we know that— that Yamada’s the only one who’s dead?” Oracle asks, face strained (he’s seen that before, when she’s actively trying to hold back her power. Sometimes she succeeds, sometimes she fails, and it’s never pretty when she fails.)</p><p>“Oracle, wait.” Armsmaster steps up to her. “We need to be smart about this. Your power is our best shot at figuring this out, but we all know you have your limits. We need to make absolutely sure we use it efficiently. How long do you think you can handle using it before your migraines grow unbearable?”</p><p>If there’s anything Dennis admires (hates) about his boss, it’s that the man really isn’t afraid to just say what they’re all thinking. Oracle, to her credit, weathers the stares.</p><p>“I...I think I could manage five or four short bursts. Or two big ones.”</p><p>“Alright. Can you give us any information on what the writing on the wall means?”</p><p>Oracle’s face goes...odd. It’s like she’s staring <em>through </em>everything, her eyes so focused they become knives, cutting into stone, flesh, and bone, stripping out their secrets.</p><p>“It was a...declaration,” she intones. “Their hands wavered as they did it, you can see it in the way the drywall cracks, they used more force than necessary — they <em>hated </em>Yamada. It was personal, for them. The composition—” She stops, gasping, and her eyes return to normal intensity as her hands go to her head.</p><p>“...not your typical Stranger,” Velocity echoes. “Someone had a vendetta, and they carried it out.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p><em>Oh. </em>Fucking hell. Spiders crawl up Dennis’s spine, and his nerves spark and hiss at his muscles as he scans the room again: Dauntless and Weld are flanking the room, and Flechette had found her own little corner, with Dean hovering between her and Lisa. He wipes the smudge off his helmet and tries to get some distance.</p><p>“Who’d have a vendetta against a PRT therapist?” Weld asks, stepping forwards ever the mediator, the by-the-books replacement piece of <em>shit— </em> “She was well-respected amongst—” Fire flashes through Dennis’s veins, and his tongue looses itself.</p><p>“Weld, can you <em>not </em>beat about the bush for once?” he snarls, outraged at the metallic man’s attempt at deflecting the obvious. “For fuck’s sake, we <em>all </em>know one of us did it.”</p><p>“Clockblocker!” Militia snaps, and he hears the crack of gunfire in her voice. “That’s enough.” The damage is done: the subterranean mood sinks further, and everyone’s eyes flicker around the room. Hands twitch towards weapons (Flechette has a sword, she’d insisted on having something more close-range after a run in with Hookwolf, it has an effective range of 3 feet, her power interferes with his, she’s the primary threat), spines tense (Dauntless can move <em>fast </em>when he needs to and Clockblocker’s not sure if he can freeze his armor fast enough to stop lightning.)</p><p>“Tossing around baseless accusations gets us <em>nowhere,</em>” Armsmaster states, the ice in his tone palpable. “We don’t know if...<em>that</em> is a surety. Out of all of the people in this room, I believe Dauntless and I are the only ones who <em>didn’t </em>have a meeting with Mrs. Yamada today, and the security camera recordings would—” He stops, and his fingers fly to his gauntlets, holo-display popping up. “The security team,” he snarls, trying to hail someone. “They should have checked in by now.”</p><p>A few more terse moments of a phone dialing, dialing, dialing, and then dying. “Damn it,” the tinker hisses. “Damn it.” A deep breath. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Militia, you’re with me. We’re taking the body back to my lab to perform an autopsy. Velocity, Clockblocker, Oracle, Myrmekes, you’re going to head to the security room and check in with the team. Gallant, Weld, Flechette, Dauntless, I need you to perform a sweep of this floor and see if there are any more fatalities.”</p><p>“Splitting up, Armsmaster?” Dauntless asks, shifting. “Isn’t that...the opposite of what we should do in a Master-Stranger scenario?”</p><p>“We need to establish facts, and fast. And if we had a Stranger or a Master capable of killing or subduing multiple capes at once, we’d be dead by now. But first— I need you all to tell me <em>when </em>you met with Mrs. Yamanda.”</p><p>“Ah.” Velocity swallows. “I had her first appointment today. Around...7:30 am, I believe? Thirty minutes, as usual.”</p><p>“I had the one after,” Flechette admits. “8:45 to 9:45.”</p><p>“I had a 10 o’clock to 11,” Gallant states. “I had 11:30 to 12:30, sir,” Weld reports.</p><p>“She had her scheduled lunch break, and then—”</p><p>“I met her around one-ish,” Militia says. “Ended fast, something came up. I probably was only in there for ten minutes.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dennis confirms. “I, uh. Got your slot, basically. 1:15 to 2:15.”</p><p>“And I saw her last,” Oracle confirms. “2:30 to 3 o’clock. Took a power nap after, found Taylor, and we met up <em>before </em>she went to go see Yamada, so…”</p><p>“I found the body around 4:30,” Myrmekes murmurs. “And I signalled the alarm immediately.”</p><p>“Which means there’s a gap of about an hour and thirty minutes between you visiting her and Myrmekes discovering the body,” Armsmaster notes. “More than enough time for a Stranger to do...this. That checks out.” He nods, his shoulders sagging a fraction of an inch before asserting themselves again. “You have your orders. Go. Let’s get to the bottom of this, team.”</p><p>Slowly, they shuffle out the door, leaving Armsmaster and Militia alone with the body. Glances are exchanged, lines of communications are established, and the two teams plunge deeper into the bowels of the PHQ. Dennis doesn’t relax until they’re out of sight and earshot. Velocity and Myrmekes are bringing up the front, with him and Oracle standing a few feet back— just in case.</p><p>“Hey,” she ends up whispering to him as they make their way through the corridors, LED lights washing everything out. “Look, I know this is like, the worst timing and I’m the <em>last </em>person you wanna hear this from, but snapping at Weld— especially during all of this— really doesn’t make you look good, Clock.”</p><p>“I’m really not in the mood, Lisa,” he growls. The blonde could be tolerable— even likable, when she wasn’t playing mom. “Don’t lecture me about team dynamics— especially during all of this.”</p><p>“I’m trying to <em>help, </em>Clock.”</p><p>“I didn’t <em>ask </em>for <em>your </em>help, Oracle.” He glares at her, domino mask simultaneously hiding so much and not nearly enough. “I don’t need it.”</p><p>“Why are you so angry at him?” she asks, and— and he suddenly realizes that’s the first time anyone’s actually <em>asked </em>him that. “I’ve never understood it,” she continues, as if she hadn’t just sent him spiraling. “If anything, you should hate me. I’m— I’m the one who caused—”</p><p>“Don’t,” he forces out, trying to keep his hands and voice steady. <em>(Dennis— Dennis! Move!)</em> “Don’t. Please.” He wipes the smudge off his helmet, and to his surprise, she backs off.</p><p>“Okay. But anyway, Weld didn’t show up till after all that went down, and he’s tried to do right by—”</p><p>“I <em>know </em>all that, L— Oracle. It’s just...doesn’t he seem <em>too </em>nice? Like, he can’t possibly be real. He puts on this big show of being a great guy, but it’s too much. He never complains, never bitches, doesn’t even have any remotely interesting hobbies— dude’s a fucking boy scout. I don’t trust him. I can’t trust anyone who tries to make themselves so… perfect. ”</p><p>Oracle is silent for another few moments, before finally asking one last question.</p><p>“Why are you punishing him for being a better person?”</p><p>He doesn’t have an answer to that that doesn’t end in words he can’t take back, so instead he bottles it up, freezes it, because they’re almost at the security room. Velocity tries to establish contact— <em>knock knock, </em>(who’s there? Nobody<em>. </em>Nobody who? No bodies left.) <em>Open up! </em>Nothing but silence. On three, they deactivate the lock-down and…</p><p>The first thing that really hits him is the <em>smell. </em>Burnt wires and freshly spilled copper, stirred together like a cocktail of horror, designed to churn his gut. Then the sights: the lights had been damaged in the slaughter, so it takes him a moment to adjust to the darkness, but then he sees them. The corpses slumping in their seats, hands slack and heads nearly removed at the neck, rolling off their backs like old teeth hanging onto gums with thin strips of flesh, faces forever frozen in the ghastly rictus of death. The chairs and floor are practically painted black with the sheer amount of blood that had gushed from the wounds, and even a single step into the room results in their boots <em>scrunching </em>against the dried bodily fluid. The burnt smell came from the computers: an unsteady hand had taken a tool to them. Towers had been smashed, monitors cracked, keyboards shattered. The screens were all dead.</p><p>“<em>Jesus.” </em>Oracle whispers, observing the carnage. Myrmekes turns away, eyes hidden by her visor, but Dennis knows exactly what she’s feeling. They’re all feeling it.</p><p>Velocity recovers first, radioing Armsmaster immediately, preventing them from further entering the room.</p><p>“Velocity reporting in. Piper PA-twenty four.”</p><p>“<em>I read you, Velocity. What’s the situation?”</em></p><p>“The security team is dead. Almost decapitated at the throat— it’s… it’s bad, Armsmaster.. The computers have been destroyed, towers and monitors alike.”</p><p>“<em>Damn it. I was afraid of that. Is there any way to recover the security footage?” </em></p><p>“Not unless you can resurrect a smashed tower,” Velocity replies, grim. “And if you can’t, then we have no way of verifying that everyone was telling the truth about their locations.”</p><p>“...we do.” Everyone turns to look at the reclusive tinker, already leaning into her girlfriend’s side at the attention. “We— when the PHQ was retrofitted, they installed new cameras, which automatically upload footage to a private cloud every thirty minutes. If we can access it, we can review the footage,” she finishes.</p><p>“How do you even <em>know </em>that?” Dennis finds himself asking. “I sure as hell didn’t.” Taylor’s face goes a bit red as she answers.</p><p>“I, um. I would check the cameras in my room. The first couple of days. To remind myself that— that everything was fine.” Lisa’s hand snakes into Taylor’s and gives it a quick squeeze, and something inside Dennis’ chest crumples a little (<em>Chris! Oh fuck, Chris!)</em> Velocity brings a hand up to his earpiece, relaying the news.</p><p>“Did you get all of that, Armsmaster?”</p><p>“<em>I did. Get that footage, Myrmekes. Over and out.” </em>The grey-and-black clad Tinker moves forwards into the crime scene, her gloves reaching into one of the corpse’s pockets. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulls out a phone, which had been luckily undamaged by the...excess liquids. Her fingers go to the power button, and—</p><p>“Locked.” She scowls at the device and turns to Oracle. “A little help?”</p><p>Now it’s Oracle’s turn to hesitate, shifting. “I’m not sure if using my power for something as small as this is a good idea.”</p><p>“Just the passcode,” Taylor urges. “That’s nothing, right?”</p><p>“It’s not if I can get the information,” Oracle states, face severe. “It’s— it’s about being able to turn it <em>off </em>after I get what I’m looking for and being able to think afterwards.”</p><p>“Hey.” This time, Taylor’s the one grabbing Lisa’s hand. “You can do this. You’re the strongest person I know.” A thin visor hides the Tinker’s eyes, but it’s all too easy to imagine the shine (Chris’ eyes, bright with wonder and possibility. Snuffed out like an afterthought, a candle’s wick crushed by a careless wind.)</p><p>“O-okay.” Oracle takes a deep breath and stares at the phone. “Here goes nothing.”</p><p>A tense second passes, and her eyes go <em>weird </em>again, a focus so crystalline the gaze cuts through to the truth of the world. Three seconds, five seconds, ten seconds—</p><p>“Stop!” Taylor yells, and Oracle audibly gasps for air.</p><p>“4-2-1-7.” She rattles off. “It’s— yeah.” She takes another few swigs of oxygen, blinking slowly in the way only those afflicted by migraines and other such pains did. “Um. Gimme a minute.”</p><p>Myrmekes is already entering the code, and— a small fist pump. “He was already logged into the system. Sending the files to Armsmaster ASAP.”</p><p>“You have his number?” The tinker just <em>stares </em>at him for a few seconds, and...oh, duh.</p><p>“Yeah?” she says, in a tone that makes it very clear she’s wondering why he doesn’t.</p><p>“I mean, I’m not a tinker.”</p><p>“Oh. I mean, he’s still pretty nice to— not important right now.” She gets back to emailing Armsmaster (it’s hardly a surprise. When he thinks about it, whenever Taylor <em>wasn’t </em>on patrol or with Lisa, she was working with Armsmaster. Lisa had even made a joke about expecting adoption papers, sooner or later. He’d bitten down a far nastier reply of <em>what, did she lose her first one?</em> He doesn’t make jokes about parents. Ever.)</p><p>“Alright, sending...<em>now.</em>” Velocity relays the information, and Armsmaster’s voice crackles in all of their ears.</p><p>“<em>Got em. Running them through the computer. I should be able to fast-forward through and verify that everyone was where they said they were in a few minutes. In the meantime, make your way back here and do a sweep for anyone else on the floor.” </em></p><p>“Roger that.”</p><p>No sooner had Velocity signed off than the screams started ripping through the halls of the PHQ. And a moment after, Velocity is tearing down the halls, Myrmekes and Oracle hot on his heels.</p><p>And Dennis is there, standing in the echo of that scream, watching Echidna rampage towards him, made helpless by his own frozen armor. And he sees Chris’ body go sailing through the air right towards his outstretched arms and—</p><p>
  <em>Splat.</em>
</p><p>He wipes the smudge off his helmet and plunges into the depths of the PHQ.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Dennis' anger often goes unremarked on in Wormfanfic, as does the potential horror of his power.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Hannah</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hana is the name she left behind.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong>Subject: Miss Militia.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Playing back recording…</em> </strong>
</p><p><strong><em>Y: </em></strong>Tell me about your mother, Militia.</p><p>
  <em><strong>MM: </strong>Must I, doctor? I feel as if it’s a rather cliche question.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Please, call me Yamada. Or even Jessica, if you like. And I assure you, I don’t mean to take a page from Freud’s book, but after looking at my notes, I realize my knowledge of your childhood is...rather sparse. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>MM: </strong>And that matters? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Childhood is one of the most formative areas of our lives. In the realm of psychology, it matters very much.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>MM: </strong>Then I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you, Jessica. I barely remember my mother. </em>
</p><p>[there is a brief pause.]</p><p>
  <em><strong>MM: </strong>I remember the forest. The way the pine needles dug into my skin, the splinters burrowing into my feet. I remember the fields, and the bursts of noise and blood. I remember the children, but I can no longer recall their names, save one. I remember the men, but I cannot remember their faces. And I remember… I remember all of it. The smell of cooked flesh, the way the body crumples under a bullet. And yet...my mother’s face eludes me. I have long since lost the memory of my father’s voice. Even the name of my village is gone, now. I only have the forest and the fields. Little rivers. The crying. Something I suppose I miss, in the abstract sense is the community. We were small, and all the more tightly-knit for it. America is...large. Thousands upon thousands of miles, friendships that transcend physical distance. I tried, at one point, to find the other children, but...they are scattered, now. As lost to me as my mother’s face.</em>
</p><p>[there is a brief chuckle.]</p><p>
  <em><strong>MM: </strong>The memories are the price I paid, I suppose. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>The price? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>MM: </strong>For acceptance. I chose my new identity with care, Jessica. My name— I got it from the second amendment. A well regulated Militia, necessary to the security of a free state. I put a flag on my face for a reason. I wore my new allegiance as loudly as I could, and it worked. For the most part. They forget where I am from, and they see only the stars and the stripes. The persona. And the PR team takes care of anyone who screams at me to go back to my country.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>I’m sorry you have to deal with that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>MM: </strong>It is...there are many who have not been as fortunate as I have. I love this country, I truly do. Or, I love the idea of it. The Land of The Free. The reality of America is oft...disappointing. People can be cruel, and the distance allows them to forget that their words have impact. Hatred cultivates in isolation. And I have had a crisis of faith, recently. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>In America?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>MM: </strong>Yes, but...more specifically, in the Protectorate. I have… never been entirely comfortable with the Wards program. It left a bad taste in my mouth. But when I arrived, I was young, and I was desperate to find a home, so I said nothing. And I watched, and I drifted, and I wound up here, on this lonely city on the coast. And I stood back and I watched the children trickle in. And that worked, for a time. Keeping my distance, not getting involved. But after...Echidna...That wasn’t an option anymore. I couldn’t ignore their pain. So I stepped up.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>And this led to your crisis of faith?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>MM: </strong>I wasn’t able to see them as participants in a program anymore. I’ve spent a number of mornings talking to L— Flechette. About heritage, and anxiety, and so many other things. I’ve talked to Taylor when Oracle and Armsmaster were unavailable, and she’s… she’s such a bright young woman, when you can coax her out of her shell. And sometimes I see— I see Chris. In her smile, her eagerness to prove herself. Her youth.</em>
</p><p>[there is a shaky breath.]</p><p>
  <em><strong>MM:</strong> I can’t pretend any longer, Jessica.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Pretend <strong>what, </strong>Militia?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>MM: </strong>We send them out on patrol. We send them out, dressed up in costumes and head full of fantasies, and we tell them to travel the city. Sending them out to inspire hope, as if Brockton isn’t full of monsters. And sometimes, they find them. Our very own minesweepers. </em>
</p><p>[there is a pause.]</p><p>
  <em><strong>MM: </strong>I can’t pretend I’m not the one giving the marching orders anymore.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Militia…</em>
</p><p>[there is the sound of a phone going off.]</p><p>
  <em><strong>MM: </strong>I’m terribly sorry. I’m needed. We’ll have to continue this another time.</em>
</p><hr/><p>Hannah stares down at the corpse of Jessica Yamada, still and quiet on Armsmaster’s hastily cleared working station, and wonders if she’d seen her killer before she closed her eyes. Or had she died afraid, confused? Why hadn’t she seen <em>it </em>and found the power to escape? Why, what, if, how? The questions duel, buzzing flies fighting each other in the bone arena of her skull. Eventually, the silence (the buzzing) grows unbearable, and she finds herself talking.</p><p>“I wonder who will grieve for her.”</p><p>“I expect quite a crowd will show up at her funeral,” Armsmaster says, fingers flying across a keyboard. “She had a number of patients and colleagues, all of whom spoke highly of her. Probably have to show up in costume, to be safe. I’m not aware of any siblings but I assume her parents will arrive. Can’t imagine why they wouldn’t.”</p><p>“That is not what I meant, Colin.”</p><p>He turns away from his work to look at her, sliding up his visor to reveal his startling <em>blue </em>eyes, sharp as a shattered window. In the soft lights of a dozen computer monitors and machines, his face seems even more somber then usual.</p><p>“Have I misunderstood?” he asks, more softly than a man of his stature and status would seem capable of.</p><p>“Funerals are a...public affair. In nearly every culture, it is a communal event. People flock to see the dead remembered and buried. The tears of the bereaved. It is a cleansing. You get to show up, breathe in all of that sadness and anger and despair, hear the stories, listen to the echoes of a life, and then you get to breathe it all out. Leave, and move on. A finite event. <em>Grief </em>is...not. Grief lingers. Like a scar that aches on a cold day. The community has no desire to see or share in it. It is a private thing. Reserved for the people who loved you.” She tries to smile; it comes out twisted. “In so many cultures around the world, it’s the same. I find it oddly comforting.”</p><p>“...I wasn’t aware that you spent so much time studying these things,” he murmurs. “Feeling homesick?”</p><p>“America is my home, and has been for a long time. We both know that. Even if I wanted to go back, no one would remember me. I doubt that village is even there anymore.”</p><p>“If… if you wanted to go back, I would go with you,” he offers. “I understand how intimidating the thought of home can be.”</p><p>She smiles genuinely at that, and comes around the table. “My friend,” she says, allowing sentiment to sneak into her voice, and a hand to find itself on his shoulder. “I appreciate it. But if I’m going to make that journey, I need to make it alone.”</p><p>“You’re unusually philosophical today,” he notes. “Anything bring this on, besides the obvious?”</p><p>“I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking. Too much,” she admits. “The base is too silent, these days. I miss their laughter, the silly arguments and in-jokes. Even Ethan, somehow. I don’t know how Alex is coping, but I feel as if I barely see her anymore.”</p><p>“We all miss them,” Colin says, sandpaper memories grinding his voice to a rough edge. “But this won’t help me— help us fix this.”</p><p>“There’s nothing to fix, Colin. Unless you’ve engineered a way to solve death.”</p><p>“If only.” His frame sags, a titan brought low by the weight of the world. “If only, Hannah.” The smallest of tremors. “Under my own damn roof,” he whispers. “Under my own goddamn roof.” A metal hand comes up to hold a grizzled face, trying to rub away something she can’t see.</p><p>“This isn’t on you,” Hannah says, and even as she says it, a voice that sounds very much like his hisses <em>you don’t know that, </em>and she does her best to ignore it. “You can’t—”</p><p>“It doesn’t matter,” he cuts her off. “The higher-ups have had it in for me ever since Echidna. Even if we solve this in the next five minutes, the fact that it happened at all is just another nail in my coffin. Once this is done, my position will be stripped away and I’ll be shipped off to some mid-western city, where I can’t embarrass anyone and play second fiddle to someone who’s better at licking boots.”</p><p>“I...didn’t know it had gotten that bad,” she admits. She’d certainly noticed his diminished mood, but she’d attributed that to the loss of their Wards and friends. “You didn’t say anything.”</p><p>“You didn’t ask,” is the terse answer from a tense face.</p><p>“...are you okay?” she asks. “I know that none of us are ever really okay, given what we do.” She glances at Jessica, so still and silent on the table. “And especially right now, but… are you okay, Colin?”</p><p>Colin sits with that for a moment, eyes drifting down, sifting through a mind she’s never been able to fully understand.</p><p>“Do I seem okay?” he asks. “I tried to… to act like everything was fine. Didn’t want to hamper morale.” A bitter twist of the lips. “I guess I’m a bad actor.”</p><p>“You are different,” she admits. “But you've always been different, Colin. It’s a very subtle strategy. That way no one can tell when you’re in pain.”</p><p>“Is that what we are?” he murmurs, rubbing at his eyes. “In pain?”</p><p>“We’re parahumans, my friend. We’re born from pain. It’s why we need each other to help. And it’s why, when all this is done, I’m going to go to bat for you.” He meets her eyes, and she hopes he can see the fire in them. “I won’t let them punish you for a tragedy. If they try and get rid of you, they’ll be losing me, too.”</p><p>“...thank you,” he whispers, and perhaps there is a glimmer of a tear in his eye, but that shall go unremarked on by the both of them. “I… thank you, Hannah.”</p><p>“Any time. Now, will you stop delaying and tell me what you’ve found?” He freezes, and then gives a weak chuckle.</p><p>“I really am a terrible actor, huh?”</p><p>“The worst,” she drawls. “Tell me, Armsmaster.”</p><p>A deep breath, and with it the visor slams down.</p><p>“There are three important things I’ve learned from the body,” Armsmaster states, stepping up to the corpse on the table. “Firstly— the stab wound wasn’t how she died.”</p><p>“It wasn’t? The amount of blood—”</p><p>“Look at her neck.” Armsmaster tilts the head, gently, and there it is: a bruising pattern, faint but still recognizable. “She was strangled to death, Militia. Would have died staring at her attacker while she was asphyxiated.”</p><p>Hannah can’t help but shiver at the thought; a phantom memory of her lungs screaming, legs kicking helplessly as a mercilessly grip stole her life.</p><p>“Hell of a way to die. Oracle was right in saying her attacker hated her.”</p><p>“Speaking of, there’s the matter of the blade itself.” He draws her attention to the gaping wound in the woman’s stomach, guts visible. “Create something that would fit in the wound, if you please?”</p><p>She doesn’t even have to think about it: her power simply responds to some impulse in her brain, emerald light pulsating and dancing as she cycles through knives. Eventually, she lands on something jagged, bolt-shaped, about eight inches— Oh.</p><p>“Colin, this—”</p><p>“Yeah.” Armsmaster gestures at his computer screen, the jagged edge of Dauntless’s Arclance bright enough to clip the camera. “I noticed the similarity too.”</p><p>“You don’t think that he…”</p><p>“You just demonstrated that replicating the general shape of the weapon can be done, so it’s nothing definitive. Circumstantial evidence, at best. But…”</p><p>He reaches down and pulls open the wound, a light popping out of his helmet to bring illumination to Yamada’s interior, the smell vile and crimson in flavor. “Look. It’s faint, but you can see it: electrical burns around the entry wound. However, that too is easily replicable. I reckon it could be done with any taser of sufficient voltage.”</p><p>“Didn’t Dauntless say that he didn’t see Yamada today?”</p><p>“I said that,” Armsmaster says, tone grim. “And it’s true, he’s not on the schedule. But we have a gap of an hour and thirty minutes before Taylor discovered the body: <em>I</em> could have done this in that amount of time, and so could Dauntless. The schedule means less than nothing, and since we need to maintain the lockdown, the security tapes are our only way of verifying if he was telling the truth. Which is why he’s <em>not </em>on the team going to recover them.”</p><p>“...you sent Wards with him despite—”</p><p>“Gallant is an emotion sensor,” he cuts her off, tone severe, and hands gripping the table hard enough to warp the metal. “He’ll know if something is wrong, and Flechette and Weld can deal with his abilities. It was the safest team to send with him. Velocity, Myrmekes and Oracle are all vulnerable to him, and Clockblocker can’t react fast enough to lightning.” He glances at her face, and adds: “I don’t think he’ll try anything with three people. I really don’t. But I wanted to… be safe with who I sent.”</p><p>“That’s cold, Colin. Callous, even.”</p><p>“I have to be cold, Militia.” His Adam’s apple bobs, and he turns away from the body— away from her. “I have to be. If I let myself feel...everything that I’m feeling right now, it’s over. I need to stay in control.”</p><p>She can’t respond before he raises a hand, and his other goes to his earpiece. “I read you, Velocity. What’s the situation?” A beat. What’s still visible of his face sinks. “Damn it, I was afraid of that. Is there any way to recover the footage?” He glances back at her. “Security team’s dead, and the room’s been trashed.”</p><p>“No way to salvage it?” she asks, even as she runs her head through the math: If Dauntless <em>had </em>killed Yamada, then could he have doubled back and destroyed the security room and still had time to meet up with them before they went to the rec room? Where had he come from? Which wing? <em>Remember, damn it.</em></p><p>“I did,” Armsmaster says, and she glances up to see he’s still on the comms. “Get that footage, Myrmekes. Over and out.” He turns to her once more. “Taylor found a way to retrieve the footage.” Milita allows herself a smile at that.</p><p>“She’s a clever girl.”</p><p>“She certainly is,” Armsmaster agrees. “Fantastic work ethic, that one. Any moment not spent with Lisa is in a lab.”</p><p>“I know,” she muses. “To be honest, I was half-expecting to see adoption papers turning up.”</p><p>His face, having lifted at the news of getting the footage, sinks again, closing itself off to her.</p><p>“I’m no good with kids,” he states, morose. “And besides… it would be a bad idea.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I can’t… It’s just not a good idea, with my future uncertain as it is,” he refutes. “Taylor needs stability in her life. I can’t give her that— I’m also…” He sighs, hand rubbing his grizzled chin. “You know me, Hannah. I’m not a people person. Taylor needs a gentle touch, and I’ve never had one.”</p><p>“All fair points,” she concedes. “Counterpoint: She likes you. She <em>trusts </em>you.”</p><p>“I know.” His lips curl down even further. “That’s part of the problem.”</p><p>“How is that—” His hand comes up once more, listening to a radio wave. He spins, going to a computer and opening his email, watching a new message arrive.</p><p>“Got em,” he reports, presumably to the first team. “Running them through the computer. I should be able to fast-forward through and verify that everyone was where they said they were in a few minutes. In the meantime, make your way back here and do a sweep for anyone else on the floor.” The video files come up, and he loads them into a video-editing program, computer whirring as several hour’s worth of footage was poured into it.</p><p>“Perfect,” Milita murmurs. “At the very least this’ll help us rule out—”</p><p>A scream pierces the walls of Armsmaster’s lab. The two heroes look at each other, and come to the same conclusion.</p><p>“Dauntless,” they both breathe.</p><p>And then they run.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It strikes me how few fics bother to have these two acknowledge their long friendship.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Weld</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He can't feel anything, some days.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong>Subject: Weld.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Playing back recording…</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>W: </strong>I had a dream last night. I was on the water. On the beach, you could say. But not really on the beach, because I couldn't see anything resembling a shoreline. For miles and miles, there was nothing but ocean, and a sky so vast it seemed like it, too, went on forever. And I loved it. The thing is, it felt more like a memory than a dream. The sky was so blue and the water was so dark, that it felt entirely too real to be something that was just my brain playing tricks on me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>It could very well be a repressed memory, Weld. That sort of thing isn’t uncommon for—</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>W: </strong>Case 53s, I know. I also know how often it doesn’t go anywhere. We don't have any memory of who we were before...<strong>it</strong>. And I've done my best to make my peace with that. But after dreams like last night, I can't help but feel as if I've been <strong>robbed</strong>. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>W: </strong>I have no idea how old I am, not really. I'm young, but my birthday is something that got chosen more out of happenstance than any actual knowledge. My entire life is a… a <strong>construct</strong>. I've— I’ve heard it said that heroes are made, not born, but in my case it's particularly fitting, don’t you think? Everything about my life was created for me, and I only had a hand in some of it. My name, my hobbies, my history— inventions. I’m… <strong>man-made. </strong></em>
</p><p>[there is a brief period of silence.]</p><p>
  <em><strong>W: </strong>Have you ever read the Wizard of Oz, doctor?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Can’t say that I have. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>W:</strong> I didn’t expect you to. It’s a terrible book, in all honesty. But I’m sure you’re familiar with the Tin Man. What most people don’t know about him is that he used to be a human. His name was Nick Chopper, because he was a lumberjack, and you have to play to type. And he lived in a beautiful forest, and he had a beautiful family. But one day, the Wicked Witch saw him, and she cursed his axe on a whim. And the axe rose up, and it began chopping pieces of him off, little by little. But Nick Chopper had a friend, a smith, and he replaced the limbs that he lost with tin. And the axe kept shopping, and the smith kept replacing, until Nick Chopper wasn't Nick Chopper anymore, he was the Tin Man. And the Tin Man didn't have the heart to love his family anymore.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Weld…</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>W: </strong>It’s okay, Mrs. Yamada. I don’t... <strong>feel </strong>the same way that regular people do. I still experience emotions, but the process of it is a complete mystery to me. Sometimes I feel as numb and cold as the metal I’m made out of. On the worst days, the <strong>bad </strong>ones, I feel… artificial. Like I’m not really a person, just a— a construct, made to serve other people. And I'm not saying I hate my job! I love my job. I love being a Ward, I love helping people. I really do. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But… I think I also used to love swimming.</em>
</p><p>[there is another brief pause.]</p><p>
  <em><strong>W: </strong>I thought about swimming before. Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I used to sneak out of the Boston base after dark, pick up a taxi and have him drive me to a pier. I get right up to the edge, my shoes half on the wood and half on nothing, and I look deep into the water. At night, it’s so dark it almost looks like liquid shadows— no light reaches what’s beneath. I think about jumping in. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>W: </strong>And the fear hits me, like a lighting bolt. I know that if I put one foot in that water, I’ll sink right to the bottom. And it’ll be so dark and so deep that I might never find my way back out. And that the water will fill up my artificial lungs until I can’t breathe anymore, and I’ll just float forever in the darkness, unable to tell if I’m alive or dead. And it’s almost relieving, to feel it. That fear. It reminds me that I’m still alive. But every time, it’s a little less. So I’ve been thinking...what else do I need to do in order to feel alive? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>W: </strong>...That’s it, right? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>End of session.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cla-click.</em>
</p><hr/><p>Weld doesn’t like the PHQ. Any building with too much metal makes him nervous, worried about stepping or leaning against the wrong thing and having to go through the embarrassing process of having to force out and drop the impurities. No one really ever looks at you the same after they’ve seen you squeeze out iron like a blackhead from a pore. (No one ever really looks at him the same as everyone else.)</p><p>The hallways seem especially foreboding now, their uniform lack of personality now menacing, every patch of shadow now untrustworthy. The chaotic staccato song of armored boots rapping against the floor is paltry and weak compared to the chorus in his head— an unrelenting rhythm of escalating nightmare scenarios. What if, what if, what if…</p><p>Eventually, he can’t take it anymore.</p><p>“Dauntless, sir?” The spartan-themed hero turns to him, burnished bronze armor gleaming in the LED lights, face obscured by steep shadows and steel. For a moment, he looks more akin to Leonidas, a warrior-king of old staring upon his subject and finding him wanting. The moment passes, and he can breathe again (except, he doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t do any of that. He just likes to pretend he does.)</p><p>“Yes, Weld? Something wrong?”</p><p>“Just...wondering what your take on all this is, sir. I’m new to Brockton, so I don’t really have the list of suspects. I haven’t had time to memorize the villain roster.” He can feel Gallant’s blue gaze drilling into the back of his head, can almost hear Clockblocker’s words like an angry reprise: <em>for fuck’s sake, Weld. We <strong>all </strong>know it was one of us. </em></p><p>He couldn’t find it in him to hate Clockblocker. Dislike him, sure. Get frustrated, absolutely. But hate? No. You couldn’t hate someone whose face turned to hollow drywall and peeling plaster whenever they thought no one was looking, bereft of any forced or fake smiles. You especially couldn’t hate someone who spent fifteen minutes, every morning, going into his dead best friend’s room.</p><p>Weld had been lucky enough to not really lose anyone (that would imply he had anyone close enough to lose. Weld is as alone as he was that one night he woke up beneath an unfamiliar sky with unfamiliar stars, with a thousand questions and not a single answer), but he’s seen others go through the complicated process of grieving. He knew Dennis would, eventually, stop taking it out on him.</p><p>Annnnnnd he’s been spacing. Shit.</p><p>“Not really anyone who <em>I’m </em>familiar with who’d have the necessary powerset to get inside the base without detection and eliminate Mrs. Yamada,” Dauntless is saying, rounding a corner. “Then again, we’ve had an influx of newcomers ever since Echidna— which is why we’ve been pulling double duty.”</p><p>“Power vacuum,” Flechette mutters, and the three turn to glance at her. She shrugs. “I tend to get bounced around to wherever I’m needed, and most of the time, it’s after a big gang collapses for whatever reason. Echidna chewed up half of the Empire and shut down Lung, it was only a matter of time before new villains moved in. It’s like sharks smelling blood.”</p><p>“Precisely. This could be the opening move of someone looking to establish a presence and a reputation. And I hate to say it, but sneaking onto the local Protectorate’s base and killing someone without anyone being the wiser is a pretty strong opening move.”</p><p>“That still doesn’t make any <em>sense, </em>though,” Gallant speaks up, voice rendered metallic by his helmet. “Wouldn’t it be even stronger to kill a cape? I’m happy that no one on the team was hurt, but I can’t puzzle out any kind of logic that would make killing a therapist who’s...basically unknown outside of Protectorate and PRT circles.”</p><p>“As a therapist to a number of heroes, Yamada was privy to...a number of closely kept secrets,” Dauntless intones, gently swinging open a door only to find nothing but darkness behind it. This floor is near-universally abandoned by other people, due to the number of parahumans who frequented and often slept in it. Not many PRT officers had the clearance to know the identities of the Wards in the first place, so they tended to not come here unless strictly necessary. The lower the chances of them catching a Ward without a mask on, the better. (Of course, if you were to ask Weld, he would say the humans felt uncomfortable around them. He’s seen it, as far back as he can remember. Flashes of discomfort upon seeing any power usage, officers’ nerves causing a fluttering of fingers on triggers, a shifting of feet on uneven concrete. They weren’t human. And they never really let them forget it.) “Not just identities, but information on high-ranking heroes’ powers and...psychological profiles. If I were a gambling man, I’d say that she was killed in an attempt to get information.”</p><p>“What about the writing on the wall, though?” Weld asks, rubbing the back of his neck, hoping to chase the rush of heat away. Dauntless shrugs.</p><p>“Could be a psychological tactic, designed to get us all pointing figures. Could be this new villain trying to create a name for themselves in a theatrical way.” A bitter smile crawls up the warrior’s face. “Could be their audition for the Nine.” And isn’t <em>that </em>just a chilling thought. Brockton Bay is a shattered city held together by shoestring and dreams. The addition of the Nine could collapse it entirely. Still…</p><p>“All due respect, sir,” Gallant cuts in, ever the voice of reason, “if this <em>was </em>a Nine audition I would expect a lot more bodies and a lot more mutilation.”</p><p>“Mmh. I agree, but we need to keep an open mind.”</p><p>“An open mind meaning that it could be one of us?” Flechette says, tone cold and dry as death. Dauntless sighs, and stops his search, turning to face them.</p><p>“I assume you’re all familiar with Occam’s Razor?”</p><p>“Seriously?” Weld can’t stop himself from saying. “You’re whipping that out?” Immediately, more phantom heat rushes through his body, a facsimile of embarrassment that his mind plays. (But it’s fake, of course. He doesn’t feel anything.)</p><p>“It’s not my fault rationalist chatrooms have ruined it,” Dauntless grumbles. “Regardless, I think the theory is sound: the simplest answer is often the correct one. And I don’t know about the rest of you, but I find it much easier to believe that a villain snuck on board the base and killed Yamada, rather than one of our friends… I mean, they’d have to completely snap, hide that, kill her, hide their tracks, and now hide it while in lockdown. I mean— I understand where Clockblocker and Armsmaster are coming from, but we can’t even ascertain a motivation for a <em>villain </em>to kill Yamada. What possible motive could one of <em>us </em>have? She was...helping us.” At the words, Flechette’s hands ball into a fist, but she says nothing. Weld opens his mouth, but instead of speaking, he just wonders why the room is so <em>hot— </em></p><p>And then it hits him like a wave, blasting outwards in a pure rush of <em>heat, </em>searing and all consuming, a conflagration inside his skin. He’s barely aware of his screaming as he desperately tries to keep himself together, rivulets of molten metal beginning to form, sliding off of him in a horrifying parody of sweat.</p><p>“Weld!” Flechette yells, dragging Gallant away from the rapidly forming puddle of liquidized skin, hot enough to start melting through the floor. “Weld, what’s wrong?!”</p><p>He can barely <em>think. </em>His world is fire. It’s bursting out of him, breaking through every layer of metal that made up his body. He opens his mouth but his tongue has begun to distort, lava on his lips. His legs are nearly gone.</p><p>“I can’t breathe,” he whimpers, the words warbly and distant, like he’s speaking through water. He tries to get his body to re-solidify, but it’s <em>too much</em>: he can’t fight it. It’s tearing through him, an ocean of pure power. His body’s less a shape and more of a suggestion of a person. A poor attempt at a human being.</p><p>His eyes begin to run, and the last thing he sees before his senses fade entirely is Flechette, mouth moving but no sound, visor up and eyes wide with horror.</p><p>“I’m drowning,” he murmurs.</p><p>And then he’s swallowed whole by the darkness.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Alas, poor Weld. I knew him well.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Dean</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He doesn't know how to fix this.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong>Subject: Gallant.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Playing back recording…</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>G: </em>
  </strong>
  <em>Hello, Mrs. Yamada. Thanks for giving me an earlier slot.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>It was no trouble, Gallant. What would you like to talk about today? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>G: </strong>I, uh. I have something that’s been bothering me for a while. We’ve mentioned it before, but… you know how I’m an empath?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>An emotion sensor, yes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>G: </strong>I’m trying to hold it back right now, per your request. And it’s taking most of my concentration to do it. It’s <strong>so </strong>hard, trying not to look. Sometimes… I honest to god <strong>can’t </strong>turn it off. I see a world drowning in shades of purple and red and grey. Even just walking down the street, I’ll look, and I’ll see someone who’s got a...a cloud of darkness hanging onto them. I can see everyone’s suffering, Mrs. Yamada. Everyone, everywhere I go. I can’t escape it. The world is screaming in shades of violet and gunmetal and I can’t do jack shit about it. And I know I can’t save everyone, I know that going and helping random strangers would compromise my and other’s identities, but...doesn’t it make me a bad person for walking by?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Of course not, Gallant. You’re only human— and a teenager at that. No one expects you to solve the emotional problems of the entire human population. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>G: </strong>But I <strong>could. </strong>If I really tried. If I found the time, got the training. And I’m not, cause I’m… pardon my language but I’m fucking <strong>exhausted, </strong>Mrs. Yamada. I’m exhausted because trying to keep the Wards team from falling apart is taking everything I have. Weld’s supposed to be the leader, but he’s still too new to know where the boundaries are, so he doesn’t assert himself. Flechette is too anxious and afraid of Clock to help Weld, and Clock himself is still lashing out. Taylor’s a bundle of phobias I don’t even know how to help, and Lisa’s… keeping herself busy with everyone else so she doesn’t look at herself. And I’m...so tired. And I don’t even know if I <strong>should </strong>help them.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>What do you mean, Gallant?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>G: </strong>It’s something I started thinking about, recently. After… after Echidna. My powers, Mrs. Yamada. I see their emotions. All the time. I have a cheat sheet for social interaction. I know how they’re feeling, know when they need to blow off some steam, know when they need a hug…</em>
</p><p>[there is a pause.]</p><p>
  <em><strong>G: </strong>Am I really their friend? Or am I the guy who’s just been manipulating everyone into liking him since the day we met? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>G: </strong>Am I not a fake? </em>
</p><p>[there is a quiet sob.]</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Gallant…</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>G: Please</strong>-please just give me a moment. I’m s-sorry.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>You can take as long as you need. I’m here for you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>End of session.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cla-click.</em>
</p><hr/><p>By the time even Velocity shows up, it’s too late. Weld is gone, and his liquified corpse is burning a hole through the floor. Dean sees the aftermath of it like a color bomb, dark violets of despair running with the pale aureolin of fear, dashes of dark grey despondency. In contrast to the storm before, Flechette is a miasma of horror, emotions nearly overriding reality. Velocity isn’t much different, but his stormcloud of emotion is held behind a wall of solid silver— the color of determination. The others rush in, similarly shaded. Weld is...gone. Nothing more than a burning pile of liquid, eating its way down through the bowels of the oil rig. A hungry corpse.</p><p>Armsmaster screams at them to get clear, and then aims his halberd at the remains of the Ward. A crystalline spray erupts from the weapon, and the temperature rapidly drops, going from sweltering to freezing. Some form of liquid nitrogen? Or something even more esoteric?</p><p>Whatever it is, it stops the spread of the molten...Weld, transforming it quickly back into a solid. It remains nothing more than an object. No faint flicker of otherworldly color transplanted over reality like a broken overlay to hint at human existence. Even at the best of times, Weld had been hard to read, but there should have been <em>something </em>if he was still… still alive.</p><p>Dean has no idea how he’s supposed to fix this.</p><p>“What the <em>hell </em>happened?” demands Militia, emerald lightning flickering between her fingers, eyes hard and flinty (and locked on Dauntless. In fact, she positioned herself so she was between Dauntless and the rest of the group, and there was a dark, ugly orange dash of <em>suspicion. </em>It couldn’t be. Could it?)</p><p>Clockblocker rushes to Dean, checking him for injuries, running on pure terror. <em>Don’t scare me like that dude, jesus christ— </em>Dennis complains the loudest about Dean being team mom, when for the last few weeks he’s treated all of them save Weld as if they’re made of glass. Now, the joke feels particularly morbid.</p><p>Selfishly, Dean appreciates the concern, and assures him he’s fine even as Lisa checks out Flechette. Taylor lingers at the back, staring at the hole in the floor in horror.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Flechette says, grey flooding the air around her, shock settling in even as other brief flashes erupted and faded. (He’s never quite got a grip on the girl. Her emotions are often unpredictable, strange bursts of crimson and purple and violet magenta coming and going, swiftly buried by more mundane expressions and nary a hint of them in her body language. He <em>likes </em>her for her difficulty to read, it makes him feel less like a fake friend, but now it only seems like another reason for paranoia.) “He just...melted.” The Ward swallows, the sound raw. “There was nothing we could do.” Armsmaster’s head snaps to Flechette at the words, his own unique color palette gaining its own shade of yellow, blasting through the steel wall that he usually caged his heart behind.</p><p>“Melted,” he repeats. “Can you elaborate?” There's a terse edge to his words, hands tightening around his halberd.</p><p>“I—” Gallant searches for words and comes up with nothing that seems adequate— how does one describe a death that defies all logic? “Weld just. Burst into flames. No, no— um. Not flames. He. It was like someone lit his insides on fire. Like—”</p><p>“Lava bursting out from the inside,” Armsmaster finishes. Everyone stares at him, their leader rendered so very still he almost seems to shiver. “I— we need to get my lab. Now!” And then he takes off like a shot, bolting down the hallway. Miss Militia says— something, he doesn’t hear it in the commotion, because he’s running after the tinker, they all are. And as they run, they all adopt the vibrant, bursting shades of yellow, bright enough to hurt to look at. Everyone is terrified, and he has no idea how he’s supposed to fix it.</p><p>Armsmaster’s lab is a familiar sight to Dean— after all, the illusion that he was a tinker of sorts was maintained by the man himself, and he often came to the technological candy land to get his suit repaired and such. Blue light flooded the space, computers, interfaces, and a dozen devices he couldn’t <em>begin </em>to guess at were all orderly placed around the steel-walled room. Armsmaster had dashed over to a frankly ordinary looking part of the wall, peeling back a section of metallic paneling and punching in a six digit code with more force than is strictly necessary. A hidden shelf pops out of the wall with little bravado, hissing as if the container was refrigerated.</p><p>And then he is very, very still.</p><p>“Armsmaster,” Velocity tries. The man doesn’t respond, simply staring at an empty white container— no, that wasn’t quite right. Dean angles himself around to better look at the hidden cupboard, and it appears as if it had been a container for several small spheres, all of them missing. Perhaps 24 in total?</p><p>“Armsamster, <em>talk to us,</em>” Velocity insists. “What the hell is going on?”</p><p>Dean has a sinking feeling in his gut, looking at the swirling hurricane that is Armsmaster’s soul, crimson rage spirling with golden terror, bursting through its silvery shell.</p><p>“They’re all gone,” he all but whispers, his voice distant and hollow. “The armory is gone.”</p><p>“<em>What </em>armory?” Miss Militia steps forwards. “What is—”</p><p>“I was angling to be placed on a Slaughterhouse Nine taskforce,” Armsmaster states, his voice as dead and rote as the words he put on a mission report. “In preparation I was...studying remnants of Bakuda’s tinkertech.”</p><p>Now, everyone in the room is very, very still, colors swirling madly as the implications dawn on everyone. What little can be seen of faces look horrified, and it’s so quiet you can hear the shaky breath Armsmaster takes in as he continues.</p><p>“Microbombs. Each one designed to incapacitate a member of the Nine.” They can hear the man swallow. “And now they’ve been stolen.”</p><p>Finally, the silver wall of Armsmaster’s determination cracks, and then bursts, and he lets loose a scream of pure frustration as he buries his fist into the wall, warping it with a thunderous <em>boom </em>of impact. For a few moments no one dares to breathe. In the face of a great man’s anger, the action seems sacrosanct.</p><p>“<em>Fuck,” </em>he hisses, letting his head collide with the same wall. “Fuck. This whole thing was just a diversion to steal the goddamn bombs.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” Dauntless says, shifting uncomfortably at the outburst of emotion from his commanding officer.</p><p>“Only two people in the building knew about the bombs — myself and Director Piggot. There must have been a leak somewhere, they must have figured out my combination—”</p><p>“Armsmaster.” Velocity steps forwards. “How much damage can these things do?”</p><p>He turns to look at them, visor hiding his eyes, but Dean is cursed to see everything he feels, and he knows the answer before the man speaks.</p><p>“We need to evacuate the building. They’re designed to sink into whatever material they’re placed on so that they cannot be removed— they could be <em>anywhere, </em>waiting for the trigger. Our Stranger, they must have— have placed one on Weld.” His hand goes to the radio. “Director Piggot, this is Armsmaster. Piper PA-twenty four. You need to lead an evacuation of the building, right now. The Armory has been broken into.”</p><p>They aren’t privy to the rest of the conversation, but judging by his lower jaw and the spike of apprehension, their director isn’t pleased. He’s a statue for a few moments, and then he growls out a simple <em>understood, </em>and clicks off. “She’ll get them out. You all get moving, and move <em>carefully. </em>The microbombs could be anywhere.”</p><p>“What about you, sir?” Dauntless asks.</p><p>“I’m staying,” Armsmaster states, a silvery sheen returning.</p><p>“Colin, you can’t—”</p><p>“This is <em>my mess, </em>Militia,” Armsmaster forces out, voice raw. “My responsibility. My bombs being used against us. So I am going to be the last one out of this fucking building, and that’s an order. No one else—” He stumbles, for a moment— “no one is dying on my watch. Is that clear?”</p><p>Dauntless is the first to nod, and the others follow suit, shocked into submission. “Good. I’m going to prepare Yamada’s body for transportation. I’ll be right behind you. Now, <em>go.”</em> They all slowly trickle out of the lab, hesitant to leave the man alone to die.</p><p>And that’s when the lights cut, plunging them all into darkness.</p><p>“What the hell—” Dean’s not even entirely sure who says it, but as the emergency power comes on, he can’t miss the demon mask of Oni Lee, grinning like death himself.</p><p>
  <em>ONI LEE. </em>
</p><p>It takes only a moment for Dean to scream a warning and launch a blast of pure <em>fear </em>at the assassin who only rocks back on his heels from the blow, his only reaction to it. (He has utterly nothing, no hint of humanity spilling from his soul like paint, and it only makes the terror worse, he's fucked up again and now everyone's going to die.) Everyone spins and then it’s chaos, Velocity turning into a crimson blur, guns discharging, Clockblocker turning to shield Dean, Armsmaster surging behind them all to tackle the villain—</p><p>And all for nothing, because the lights flicker <em>again, </em>and the orb is sailing into the air, almost lazily tossed—</p><p>“<em>HIT THE DECK!” </em>Armsmaster roars even as light bursts and burns away the world, and everything is falling, shifting, twisting and—</p><p>It’s like surfacing from deep water, his lungs aching as he takes a deep breath, senses scrambled. He’s somewhere <em>dark. </em>Wait. He knows this corridor, doesn’t he? This is—</p><p>“We got so fucking lucky Armsmaster didn’t label those things.” Lisa’s voice hits his ears like a bombshell, but his helmet hides his wince. “We just got teleported a few floors down, I think.”</p><p>“Everyone okay?” Flechette asks, taking her own chance to recover. What broken set of physics dedicated the exhaustion that follows forced teleportation?</p><p>“I think so,” he wheezes, taking a few more deep breaths. “So we’re not leaving Armsmaster alone, right?”</p><p>“Yeah, fuck that,” Lisa says. “Alone in the building with a teleporting bomb thrower? Absolutely not. How the hell did Oni Lee get— not important right now. We need to find T— the others.”</p><p>“Which floor did we land on?” Flechette asks. “I’m unfamiliar.”</p><p>“I think we’re three down. Shouldn’t take us long to get back up there, assuming—”</p><p>The already dim lights die, <em>again. </em>More of Oni Lee’s people, messing with the power?</p><p>“Fuck. Let’s move.”</p><p>The three Wards walk deeper into the darkness of the oil rig, and to Dean’s shame, he can’t stop himself from wondering why Flechette’s stormcloud of emotions was swelling with deep maroon.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Dean's power must be Imposter Syndrome galore.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Lily</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Flechette never feels safe.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong>Subject: Flechette.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Playing back recording…</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>F: </em>
  </strong>
  <em>It happened again, Dr— Mrs. Yamada.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>When? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>A...few days ago? I was on patrol with Gallant and Myrmekes. We’d run into members of the E88 who were attacking civilians. Hookwolf and Cricket managed to get away, but we managed to knock out a few of their...underlings? Minions? I don’t know. Either way, I was securing one of them, and he was <strong>fine</strong>— if unconscious, but then… </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>It’s okay, Flechette. Take your time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>I saw a body. A corpse, actually. And it had been horribly mutilated, guts spilling out, gashes carved all over him. His eyes wide with terror, blood <strong>everywhere. </strong>He was choking on it— gurgling red. It was all over my hands. Gallant had to snap me out of it, but for a few moments I was looking at a living man and seeing a dead one, and I felt… </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>What did you feel?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: Guilty</strong>. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Because you couldn’t save her victim?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>Because I felt like I killed him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>But you know you didn’t, yes? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>Yes— yes, of course. I mean, I couldn’t have. But you know that <strong>knowing </strong>a thing doesn’t make you <strong>feel </strong>any different. And it wasn’t just that. I also felt her… sense of pride. Accomplishment, even. I was <strong>angry </strong>at Gallant for touching me, just for a second. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>But you fought that off, didn’t you? You did well, Flechette. You’re in control. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>I don’t <strong>feel </strong>in control<strong>.</strong> It’s happening more and more now. The bursts of emotion. I thought distance would make it better, but if anything it’s made it <strong>worse. </strong>I’m— I’m having trouble sleeping. Sometimes it… it feels like she’s <strong>punishing </strong>me. For moving away. I know that’s not how </em>
  <em>it works but I’ve never been able to feel… </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Feel what?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>Before, it was just… foreign surges of emotion. Something I knew wasn’t mine intruding. Now, I get… ghost sensations, I guess. The impression of water running down my spine. A hand around my throat. A sword in my hand. Blood, splattering across my face. And I’ve definitely never <strong>seen </strong>something like that before. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>The impressions getting more intense may simply be the result of stress, Flechette. The bond operates on a subconscious level, and further mental strain may be exacerbating what’s already there.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>It’s not. I know it. She’s— she’s angry with me. For going. I can’t <strong>sleep, </strong>because I can feel how much she wants to… </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Do you feel unsafe, Flechette? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>I’ve never felt <strong>safe. </strong>You know that. How can I ever feel <strong>safe </strong>when <strong>she’s </strong>in my head? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>No one in this building will let March hurt you. We’re going to keep you safe.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>That’s what Legend said. Didn’t stop her from attacking my teammates. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Ah. I wondered if that’s what was going on.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>What?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>You’re not afraid of March attacking you, are you? You’re afraid of others getting caught in your crossfire.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F:</strong>I-yes, I… yeah. I’ve got a target painted on my back, Mrs. Yamada. Isn’t it… irresponsible of me to be around other people?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Is that what you told yourself? Whenever you isolated, drifted away from groups? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>Maybe. It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>I think the right thing to do is to give you a proper support structure, Flechette. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>I don’t— I… </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Why are you afraid of letting people get close? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>I already told you, I’m not— </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Flechette. Please. This requires honesty. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>I’m afraid, Mrs. Yamada.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y: </strong>Of?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>I’m afraid I’m going to hurt someone. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>End of session.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cla-click.</em>
</p><hr/><p>There’s a phantom heartbeat beneath Flechette’s skin, ever so slightly out of sync with her own. It pulses in her blood, a familiar song with the notes changed. Irritation crawls under the flesh, like a skittering beetle, disturbing roots and nerves alike. She swallows the rage with a dose of shame—she has more than enough sorrow to bury the intrusions whole.</p><p>Weld is gone.</p><p>
  <em>Gone. </em>
</p><p>They’d found a kinship, of sorts—both of them outsiders for one reason or another. Asynchronous with the rest of their kind, unable to find any true group where they solidly felt belonging. (The truth is, she’d never really confided in Weld, nor he her. It was safer that way. So many aspects of their identities were a series of taboos by the standards of modern society, and after a certain point, you learned to keep them locked up for your own good. Secrets you’re not to know, yet sworn to keep. Their relationship had been one of silent support. And now even that was gone, rendered nothing but a stain on the floor by a killer without a name.)</p><p>“So,” she finds herself saying, voice instinctively going to not quite-a-whisper. Something about the now darkened halls seems to discourage noise, as if the shadows were hungry and waiting to snap out. “Oni Lee, huh?”</p><p>“Well, Dauntless did say that this was likely one of the villains making a play to fill the power vacuum.” Gallant says, murmuring in kind, “Oni Lee’s appearance and the theft of the bombs kind of confirms that theory.”</p><p>“Does it?” Oracle mutters from the back. Lily twists to see her, and the blonde’s startingly green eyes (she’s not jealous of Taylor, that would be beyond horrible, so stop thinking about it) are alight, almost. Neurons firing at a speed only fellow thinkers could, connections forming as the gray matter of the brain conversed with the sterile plane of powers.</p><p>“You think it doesn’t?”</p><p>“Here’s what I think,” she says, and despite everything, Lily can’t help but smile a little, hearing the thrum of confidence in Oracle’s voice— both she and Taylor were prone to being quiet and forlorn, and whenever they broke through that cloud, it was always a sight to behold. “I think that Lung isn’t anywhere near stupid enough to do something this batshit insane. I mean, there’s the fact that he wouldn’t bother killing some random therapist he’s never heard of, but murdering a Ward? Inside of the base? Stealing from one of the most powerful tinkers on record? The Protectorate is gonna come down like the hammer of god on whoever’s responsible for this fucking nightmare.”</p><p>“Uh,” Lily speaks up. “Isn’t Lung the one who—”</p><p>“Fought Leviathan to a standstill? Yes, because Leviathan wasn’t <em>trying. </em>I’ve studied the Endbringers, and there’s at least fifteen ways that fight should have ended with Lung’s death. It didn’t, so ergo, Leviathan wanted to keep Lung alive.” Lily’s head spins, but Oracle plows on, regardless or perhaps simply uncaring for the wake her words leave. “And Lung knows it too. Besides, the Protectorate <em>knows </em>how his power works now, and if they really wanted him dead— and they would, if he was responsible for this— we have Strangers in our employ. It wouldn’t be easy, but we could take him down without a fight. And if it did come down to a fight...him versus the Triumvirate would result in what’s left of the ABB getting wiped off of the map, and he’d be a king with no kingdom. It’d accomplish nothing but get rid of what little territory he has and demonstrate that you really don’t wanna fuck with the Protectorate. Lung’s a lot of things, but stupid and self-defeating isn’t one of them.”</p><p>“So?” Gallant says, gently pushing open the door to the stairwell. “What’s your theory?”</p><p>“I’m still working on it. But the list of people who’d bother to kill Mrs. Yamada <em>and </em>know about Armsmaster’s little doomsday contingency's a pretty short list.”</p><p>They ascend, armored soles and combat boots creating a grim rhythm as they move through the nearly pitch-black space, emerging to find another dark hallway that would lead to another to another to another (time is a picture in motion— but ever since the subway, it had been looping. It always ends with her on the ground, watching death come roaring towards someone she loves.) She blinks, realizing that Oracle had asked her a question.</p><p>“I’m sorry— I…”</p><p>“It’s fine. Still, I’d like your take on… all of this. Who do you think we’re dealing with?”</p><p>“Why me?” she asks, intensely uncomfortable at being the focus of the two’s attention (slip away, slip away. Deflect, lie. Don’t let them know. They’ll never look at you the same way again.) Lisa’s early words still flutter in her chest, the possibility of having real understanding still too foriegn and too precious to risk losing by making a stupid mistake.</p><p>“You have a lack of bias,” Gallant says, voice surprisingly soft behind the steel. “A valuable thing.”</p><p>Lily swallows, and tries to get her mind running. (a difficult thing. She prefers to work on autopilot, going through the motions, working or practicing or doing <em>something </em>until she’s too tired to function and sleeps. Slowing down and letting her mind work means letting her mind… open. And that’s far too dangerous.)</p><p>“If…” she postulates, trying not to seem as if she’s making it up as she’s going, “If I was going to make some opening play in the villain game, I would go for territory and the weakened gangs. Establish myself as strong, quickly claim a space and get people working for me. I wouldn’t murder a therapist. And unless we have a very serious mole problem, an outside villain would frankly have no way of knowing about the bombs. So…”</p><p>“The killer has to be someone inside the building,” Oracle finished. “Someone we work with.”</p><p>“Yes,” Lily whispers. She hates this. Hates the paranoia, hates the way Gallant shifts his weight as if to size her up, hates the darkness and the rolling acid in her gut, hates all of it. For a single, horrible moment, she wishes she was back in New York, underneath that bleeding red sky, fighting March. The world made more sense when Flechette was with March. Their roles were clear, defined; she was a hero and March was a villain. There was no need to navigate choppy waters, ponder her future, decide if it was even worth it to try and make friends when she'd be on the road in a few months anyway. There was just the fight, just the two of them, diametrically opposed foes ready to end the other. It was simple.</p><p>(This, of course, is a lie. When she sees March, her chest pounds to a song that sounds like a dead little rabbit on the ground, heartstrings humming to a scarlet serenade. When she moves to clash swords with the madwoman, she is unsure if the next strike will carve through flesh or merely knock the offending blade away so that she might embrace the villain. When they grapple and March's hands fly to her neck, she fears for her life and for her sanity, her touch renders her an animal. She wants to <em>bite</em>, to draw <em>screams</em>. Nothing is simple with her and March.)</p><p>The moment passes, and the fear boils next to shame once more.</p><p>And then Dauntless rounds the corner, and Lily’s heart nearly breaks its ribs as her sword leaps to her hands, all of them instinctively screaming—even the single adult among them.</p><p>“Christ!” Dauntless swears, reflexively putting his hands up, the unthreatening motion diminished by the spear. “Oh my god, you kids scared the living daylights outta me.”</p><p>“Where are the others?” Gallant asks, voice as tense as piano wire.</p><p>“Only a floor up— Clock, Militia, Velocity and Armsmaster all together. I was sent out as a scouting party for you.”</p><p>“By yourself?”</p><p>The modern spartan shrugs, eyes hidden by his helm. “I was the one at lowest risk from a variety of bombs. Follow me.” He turns on his heel and follows swiftly. “Route’s clear of any nasty surprises.”</p><p>Lily moves to follow, and Oracle and Gallant do as well, although Oracle’s eyes flicker to Lily’s own, and then to Gallant, whose fingers are twitching—no, not twitching. A bit of non-verbal code, done as slowly as possible. They’d all been required to learn some basic hand signals, just in case.</p><p>He barely finishes the sign for <em>enemy </em>before Dauntless whirls, lightning ripping through the darkness and straight through Gallant’s chest. There are screams, there are curses, and then there is no more time, because Dauntless is bearing down on her. She sidesteps the thrust, ducks under the swing, hops the leg sweep, plants her feet against the wall, dives, <em>twists— </em></p><p>She comes up from her roll, drawing her sword, screaming at Lisa to run and get help. She can’t afford to get hit <em>once. </em>A single strike from Dauntless would mean death. The fear should, in all honesty, be the only thing she’s feeling.</p><p>But the fear is just tinder for the <em>rage. </em>It burns away all distractions, narrows her world to the man in bronze, the man who’d taken an oath, the man who’d <em>taken her friend from her. </em>Flechette snarls and lashes out with her blade, shimmering with power. Dauntless deftly avoids the thrust and the spear flickers out again, a tongue of death. Flechette twists past it, pulling the blade back to take a swipe at his chest. He ducks back, narrowly avoiding her range—a stray thought occurs. Where is Dauntless’ <em>shield? </em>The melee begins again, more a game of tag then any true battle of skill. Flechette quickly loses track of Oracle, all of her attention solely on evading the bone-shattering strikes of the hero-turned-killer (but something is <em>wrong, </em>something is wrong, the movements are a touch too clunky, it’s a little too easy to glide past every attack, like a song with a slowed tempo. Is this truly Dauntless, or—)</p><p>Quickly, he tires of the dance, and the living bolt of lighting bursts with power, and Flechette dives away even though he wasn’t even aiming at her, merely at the ceiling—</p><p>Light and noise dominate her world, and she scrambles back on instinct more than anything, even though the follow-up strike never comes. As her hearing returns from the brief deafness, she hears his iron boots crashing on the floor. He’s running from her?</p><p>No, not from.</p><p>Towards.</p><p>The others don’t know.</p><p>He’s going to kill them all. Like he killed Weld and Gallant.</p><p>Flechette’s eyes are still screaming but she forces herself to run after him, already weary legs being pushed further, but the pain doesn’t matter. She has to stop him. She has to make sure he can’t hurt anyone else. She has to make sure no one takes anything more from her. Boots, thundering, thundering, rising up the stairs, frightened staccato notes, leaping from score to score, virtuoso running into darkness. There’s a song thrumming inside of Flechette, perfectly in-time with her heart going <em>thump-thump-thump (kill kill kill), </em>it pulses and twists and floods her body with warmth and power, drowns the terror and guilt and fear until her world is lilac and roses. She bursts out of the starwell, not even slowing as she shoves the heavy door open, blitzing through the corridor. She rounds the corner and sees <em>him, </em>talking to the others (too close to Miss Militia, far too close, she needs to go <em>faster—)</em></p><p>He turns, and his jaw slides open beneath his helmet, eyes shadowed, but she doesn’t care what the killer (<em>traitor! There is a penalty for treason</em>) has to say. She doesn’t care for <em>why </em>or <em>how </em>or any meaningless things like that. All she knows is that Weld is dead, Dean is dead, and now, Dauntless—</p><p>Her sword shimmers and she plunges it into his chest before he can even finish saying her name, promptly rending his heart in two.</p><p>And then everything changes.</p><p>Time slows, and she can see in terrible, rapturous detail, how his eyes sink. They go wide, then lose focus, and then lose light. Darkness swells up behind them and takes something vital, and what was once a man becomes just a corpse. The transformation is…</p><p>A symphony, finishing, to thunderous applause.</p><p>She pulls out the blade with barely an afterthought, and the sensation feels like it’s happening to someone else’s arm, nerves muted by the sanctity of the moment; like children hushed by church bells. Blood spills, vibrant and clean and coppery— she’d never quite smelled it in such vast quantities, before. Dauntless sinks to his knees, already dead, and that thought brings others: the mirror of a dead man’s eyes is a looking glass to see yourself, dressed as power. She’s felt strange ever since Weld died and so it’s understandable, really, that such odd notions are slipping in through the cracks. (Some dark parody of pride echoes through her skin, she stares down at her work and deems it good. She has <em>changed </em>him.)</p><p>Killed and killer stare, but only the killer blinks.</p><p>
  <em>I did that. </em>
</p><p>The body finishes falling, and then time resumes.</p><p>It’s like waking up from a dream, only to realize…</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh <strong>god, </strong>that wasn’t— </em>
</p><p>This is the nightmare.</p><p>Pain.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It's hard to shake something off when it's already underneath your skin.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Velocity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There are some things you can't outrun.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong> <em> <strong>Subject: Velocity.</strong> </em> </strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em> <em> <strong>Playing back recording…</strong> </em> </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em><strong> <strong>V: </strong> </strong> I guess… I should tell you about it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> There’s no need to, Velocity. We can talk about anything you like. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>V: </strong> </strong> I want to talk about it. If that’s okay. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> Of course. When you’re ready. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>V: </strong> </strong> Well...Long story short, I uh, signed up for service. Got approached by a recruiter, and at the time the deal sounded...pretty good. I wasn’t exactly from a rich family, and the Tuition Assistance was the kind of thing that seemed like gold. And I’d also always wanted to travel the world, learn other languages, experience other cultures. So I signed up. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>[there is a dry snort]</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>V: </strong> </strong> Worst mistake of my fucking life. I did travel the world, learn other languages, and experience other cultures. So I could kill the people there better. Anyway— we definitely don’t have enough time for all of that, but… it was hell, Yamada. The screaming, the aches, just...the other people there. I hated them. I hated all of them. It was hell. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> I can only imagine. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>V: </strong> </strong> Anyway, we were, uh. On tour. I barely even remember where— i just know that it was night. We got ambushed. One minute, a noisy but otherwise peaceful night. The next, there was just...chaos. You ever heard gunfire? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> Only in movies, I’m afraid. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>V: </strong> </strong> The movies are...wrong. It’s so loud you think you’ve gone deaf, the entire world just turns into muted bangs and screams. There’s bullets flying everywhere, my squad is scattered, and I’m just crouched behind our flipped jeep, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. And then someone landed next to me. He was another new recruit...I, uh. Don’t remember his name. He was young, though. Younger than me. Barely even a man. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>V: </strong> </strong> Anyway, he’s crawling toward me, and the dirt underneath him is turning red. He’s saying...something, but I can’t even hear him, because I’m ducking bullets and there’s fire everywhere. I rip open his uniform and there’s just… a mess. Blood <strong> <strong>gushing </strong> </strong> out of his chest from a massive fucking piece of shrapnel the size of your phone. And I tried, Yamada. I swear on everything that’s holy that I tried. But I lost the kid. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> I’m terribly sorry, Velocity. That would be traumatic for anyone. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>V: </strong> </strong> Yeah. The sad part is, that’s not even when it happened. That’s not what… broke me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> You’re not broken, Velocity. None of you are. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>V: </strong> </strong> Mh. Those of us left had managed to hold out long enough for reinforcements. We were shipped back to base. And while I was there, after getting checked out by medical, I had this...realization that either I was gonna be the guy having someone die in my hands or die at someone else’s. That I had to get out now. So I packed my stuff and tried to slip out the back— and yeah, I didn’t really think I could actually get away, but if I got shot while escaping… well, that was still escaping, wasn’t it? </em>
</p><p>[There is some distortion.]</p><p>
  <em><strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> You’ve been very brave this session, Velocity. Thank you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>V: </strong> </strong> H-heh. Not exactly my definition of bravery. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> You’re the sort of man who’d rather take a bullet then see someone else take it— it’s why you’re here. And being brave is more than just heroics. It’s accepting truths about ourselves that we don’t like. It’s hard, looking at yourself in a clear mirror. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>V: </strong> </strong> Mh. What does that say about me, then? That I keep running? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> Well, I do believe running is part of your job description. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>V: </strong> </strong> Exactly. And don’t get me wrong, I love my job. I don’t have to kill anyone, I get to talk to the kids...but. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> But? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>V: </strong> </strong> I still feel trapped. All of my running and I’ve gotten nowhere. No matter how hard I try, I always end up back here. Back in the war. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>Y: </strong> </strong> We’re not at war, Velocity. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>V: </strong> </strong> Aren’t we? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong> <strong>End of session.</strong> </strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cla-Click.</em>
</p><hr/><p>Robin sometimes thinks that the gift of speed is more of a curse. Because, in this moment, all it means is that he gets to watch in pristine detail exactly how Flechette drives her sword into Dauntless’ chest. Exactly how the blood flies, splattering him, Myrmekes, and Militia in a fine mist. Exactly how the body falls, sinking to the ground.</p><p>He can see his friend die, as slowly as he likes.</p><p>He instead chooses to attack his killer.</p><p>It’s a delicate thing, fighting with superspeed that renders you unable to touch the physical world. There’s a rhythm to positioning, dropping out of superspeed, grabbing the murderer’s arm, <em><em>twisting, </em></em>forcing the sword to drop, catching it, and then—</p><p>Back into the motionless world. Carry the sword away from the Ward, returning to his previous position behind Miss Militia. He lets go of his power to watch Miss Militia fire a beanbag round, driving Flechette to her knees. Hear Myrmekes scream, fall back to grip her shoulder (someone has to be looking out for the kids. <em><em>Someone.</em></em>) Make sure she knows he’s covering her.</p><p>“Do not move,” Militia orders, tone nothing less than steel. “The next one will be a real bullet.”</p><p>Flechette then does something that surprises all of them— She throws up. Violently, shuddering and trembling like a leaf caught in a hurricane (or a hitherto unknown entity, bursting from some strange chrysalis, unable to contain its new strength.)</p><p>“Wait—” the girl rasps, throat hoarse with acid. “Wait. Dauntless— Dauntless killed Dean!”<br/><br/>“<em><em>Really?” </em></em>Clockblocker surges forwards, and Velocity resists the urge to yank him back, his hands still gripping Flechette’s sword (which is still soaked with his friend’s blood, adding to the pool of red surrounding the corpse.) “You’re gonna try and say that when he’s been with us the whole time?”</p><p>“Dean’s dead a floor down,” she insists, wiping her mouth. “I— I left Lisa with the body.” Myrmekes jerks forward but makes no sound. “He killed him. He killed him, that’s why… why…” she trails off, just looking at the body— at her handiwork. Clockblocker just stares, expression hidden by his mask but indecision clear.</p><p>“...she thinks she’s telling the truth,” Armsmaster states, sounding less like a human and more like a statue that learned to speak, boulders in his throat. “Velocity, run down. Confirm that we’ve lost Gallant.”</p><p>“Wait—” Myrmekes says, but Velocity is already shifting back to the motionless world, colors going dull. He’s nothing but a few steps away. It’s a journey that takes maybe eight seconds, and then—</p><p>Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph.</p><p>Gallant is a silvery mirror of Dauntless, laying very still on the ground, with scorch marks taking the place of a stab wound. It had burst right through his armor… Wait! Velocity bursts over to hear the faint sound of Gallant struggling to breathe.</p><p>“This is Velocity— Gallant is injured but still alive! Send Clockblocker down.” He turns his attention back to the Ward as he takes his hand off the comms. “Gallant. Tell me how to take off your armor—</p><p>“Vel— Velocity,” the empath croaks out. “You have to l— look for Lisa. I told her to run.”</p><p>“Hang on, Gallant. Clockblocker’s on his way,” he says, searching for the release clasps on the tinkertech. “Try not to talk.” Off goes the helmet, and… oh, that’s… a lot of blood around the lips. Internal damage? Focus. Things he can fix first. Gallant’s eyes sunken and distant, a horribly familiar haze falling over them. “Hey, hey— Focus on me, kid.”</p><p>“You— have to find Lisa,” Gallant repeats. “She— she can figure it out. Who’s not themselves. We forgot about the therapist.” “Gallant, <em><em>stop talking. </em></em>Focus on staying alive.” Boots, thundering, thundering down.</p><p>“Dean!” the timestopper all but screams. “Oh shit, Dean.” Velocity can’t find it in him to correct the Ward on identity protocols. “Hang on, hang— I got you.” Clockblocker begins helping Velocity with getting Gallant out of the armor, with far more efficiency.</p><p>“Dennis…” Gallant wheezed. “Dennis, wait. Wait. It wasn’t your fault.”</p><p>“It’s okay,” Clockblocker says, hands trembling, fumbling with the locks— it was slow going due to the damage, some of them had been melted by the lightning. “I got you now. Just a little more and I can get you time for Panacea to show up. She’ll fix you.”</p><p>“It wasn’t your fault, Dennis,” Gallant continues, like he isn’t hearing them at all. “Chris wasn’t your fault. You— you have to stop punishing yourself and everyone else for it. Please. You care so much, that’s your problem— you feel too much. And you’re afraid of letting everyone know how out of control your heart is, so you lock it up behind your mask.”<br/><br/>“<em><em>Dean</em></em>,” Clockblocker less says and more sobs. “Stop. <em><em>Talking.</em></em>”</p><p>“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt,” Dean murmurs. “I must be in shock….”</p><p>“Hold on. You have to hold on. I’ll be right here— we’ll keep you alive until Panacea’s here. She’ll fix you.”</p><p>“I don’t think he wanted me to feel pain…” Dean says, voice very far away. “The other one. I think he wanted it to be swift and painless. Lisa can tell you more. There was no color. They were dead. Not human. Tell Armsmaster.”</p><p>“Tell him yourself,” Robin says, quietly, nodding at Dennis, who’s managed to get the gauntlet off.</p><p>And then Dean goes perfectly still.</p><p>“We can’t risk removing his chestplate— I don’t wanna risk damaging something by trying to turn him over or sit him up to get it off.”</p><p>“I know,” Clockblocker says, trembling so violently that Robin would have grabbed his hand, if not for the fact that he’d probably get time-stopped out of reflex. “I… know,” Dennis says the word with a huff of pain. “Fuck. I— fuck.”</p><p>“Hey. Clockblocker— He’s gonna be fine. Once a path out is cleared, I can rush him over to the hospital. He’ll live.”<br/><br/>“He has to,” Clockblocker says, voice stretched like bowstring, ready to snap. “He has to. I can’t…”</p><p>Velocity gently, gingerly, lays a hand on the Ward’s shoulder.</p><p>The blade bursts through Clockblocker’s chest and for the second time today, Velocity sees blood splatter his face in pristine slow-motion. (At least this time, he can’t see death overtake his eyes.) This time, he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t mourn, doesn’t let himself do anything but rise up to snap his fist across Oni Lee’s demon mask (ignore the bullets roaring over head, sand splashing against his face, the cacophony of gunfire and explosions muting his world, all that matters is the—)</p><p>“Murderer.” he finds himself growling, uncaring that he can’t be understood as he activates his power to reposition himself behind the man, slipping out of superspeed to kick out one of his knees. He goes to end it, locking his arm around Oni Lee’s neck and preparing to twist, but the silent assassin’s free hand reaches back, grabs him and then <em><em>throws </em></em>him across the room— only his instinctual sliding into the motionless world keeps him from landing hard on his neck. (Oni Lee <em><em>didn’t </em></em>have a Brute rating, so where did that come from?) He charges again, but the villain is already crumbling to ash, reappearing… where,where (look <em><em>up, </em></em>idiot!)</p><p>He dives to the side to avoid the stab from above, rolls to his feet and charges again, he needs to get rid of that short sword, now. The teleporter is undoubtedly aware of his strategy, flickering the blade out like a snake’s tongue, movements denying him an easy disarm even without the complications of powers. (God, aliens, magic, whatever gave him powers, <em><em>why </em></em>did it make him useless for anything but <em><em>running—</em></em>)</p><p>A gunshot rings out, and Oni Lee stumbles, cartilage and bone tearing itself out through his knee. Velocity dares a glance behind the man, and sees Militia, walking calmly with a pistol in hands even as Armsmaster surged past her. Oni Lee manages to get another teleport off, but with his leg wound, he doesn’t get far. Velocity tackles the man’s attempt to reach the starwell, grappling with him, and even though that impossible strength surges once more to slam him breathlessly into the wall (<em><em>snap-cer-crackle </em><strong><em><strong>pop</strong></em></strong></em> go his ribs), Armsmaster catches up, and with a single blue flash of his halberd, carves a line across the villain’s chest.</p><p>Oni Lee’s body falls, bisected neatly in two, black costume unfolding and fluttering—</p><p>No! It’s Dauntless, armor cleaved and arc lance flickering as its owner falls—</p><p>No. It’s not a body. It is too thin, too long, limbs not of flesh but of steel, sleek and smooth. Its guts spill and spark onto the floor, wires hissing. It gives one final surge before it finally dies in a screech of sparks and dying electronics.</p><p>(No. No, no no no no no. God, please no.)</p><p>They all turn to look at Myrmekes.</p><p>(It can’t be. Can it? It <em><em>can. </em></em>She had time, and ability.)</p><p>“...no,” is all she says. It’s all she needs to. “No, wait—”<br/><br/>“You found the body,” Armsmaster all but whispers. “You were the one who knew how to access the security footage. You’ve had your drones active the whole time…”</p><p>(But what about the motive? What reason would there be, other than madness?) “It wasn’t— I wasn’t controlling it!” In a scramble, she takes off her helmet, offering it to her jury of four. “Look, I can prove it—”</p><p>“Stop talking.”</p><p>The Ward looks at Armsmaster, saying nothing but begging clear in every minute detail. He reaches forwards and takes her helmet from her, and then does nothing more. As she let’s go, there’s a strange jerk; an aborted motion, like a daughter thinking to hug her father and thinking better at the last minute. Velocity has the strangest impulse to look away, as if he was witnessing some private fallout.</p><p>“Militia. Help me with the bodies.” The man’s voice had gone so low it wasn’t his anymore. “Velocity, Flechette, Myrmekes— you need to locate Lisa. Make sure she doesn’t stumble on a bomb.”</p><p>“But sir—”</p><p>Armsmaster crushes the mannequin’s head beneath his armored boot, silencing Velocity’s protest. He doesn’t even look at them as he picks up Dean’s body. He must have died while they were arguing, Velocity distantly realizes.</p><p>“I can’t trust the three of you. So I’ll figure out who was controlling that drone by seeing who comes back. Militia— with me.” Militia follows orders, scooping Dennis into her arms with nary a glance back, and the two of them enter the stairwell, the door sliding shut with a sound that scrapes at the soul. For a single blazing moment, he wants to run. Out of the building, out of the city, fly across the country until the wind tore and the fire burned until he was nothing but bones—</p><p>And then it passes.</p><p>And Velocity is alone with two suspects in the dark.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Brave soldier boy, comes marching home...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Prolepsis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>d2hhdCBpcyBhIG1lbW9yeSwgaWYgbm90IHRoZSBwYXN0IHBsYXlpbmcgb3V0IGluIHRhbmRlbSB3aXRoIHRoZSBwcmVzZW50Pw==</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong>Playing back recording. </strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>ERROR. </em></strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>ERROR.<br/><br/>ERROR. </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong><em>Files missing. </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Attempting to access backup storage.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Access granted. </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Searching for targets. </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Targets found. Subjects VELOCITY, MYRMEKES, FLECHETTE, ORACLE in range of cameras 9-13.</em> </strong>
</p><p><strong><em>Running footaggggggggeeeeee.<br/><br/>SXQncyBoZXJlLCBpbiB0aGUgYml0cyBhbmQgc2NyYXBzIG9mIGNvZGUsIHRoYXQgSSB3cml0ZSBteSBlbGVneS4gT2gsIGhvdyBjYW4gSSBtYWtlIHRoZW0gdW5kZXJzdGFuZD8gVGhhdCBhbGwgSSBkaWQsIEkgZGlkIG5vdCBvdXQgb2YgaGF0ZSwgYnV0IG9mIGxvdmU/<br/><br/></em></strong>[an overhead shot of Velocity, leading Flechette and Myrmekes through the halls. They move slowly, a consequence of injuries and morale. <strong>Oh dear. Look at what you’ve done to them</strong>.]</p><p>
  <em><strong>M: </strong>I didn’t do it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>Maybe if you say something other than that, it might be more convincing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>M: </strong>Flechette, <strong>please. </strong>I— I don’t know who was controlling that drone, or how, but I wasn’t, and I can <strong>prove it— </strong></em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>Don’t you get it? It doesn’t <strong>matter. </strong>Whether you’re innocent or not. Someone has to take the blame. Maybe it’ll be you. Maybe it’ll be me. Maybe they'll toss us both in a cell and throw away the key. It doesn’t matter anymore. Guilt by association. We’re already in chains. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>V: </strong>That’s not… I want the truth of what happened. I’m not interested in a scapegoat.</em>
</p><p>[Flechette adjusts her handcuffs. <strong>All of her friends were dying, and she’s being tried for protecting them in the only way left to her. And you’re not even looking at her.</strong>]</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>…You may not be. But the rest of the PRT may not see it like that.</em>
</p><p>SSBsb3ZlIEJyb2NrdG9uIEJheS4gSSBzZWUgdGhpcyBjaXR5IG5vdCBhcyBpdCBpcywgYnV0IGFzIGl0IGNvdWxkIGJlOiBBbiBleGFtcGxlIG9mIGNpdmlsaXphdGlvbiBwcmV2YWlsaW5nIG92ZXIgYWxsIG9mIGh1bWFuaXR5J3MgZmFpbGluZ3MuIA0K </p><p>
  <em><strong>V </strong>You thought you were saving lives. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>Is that all it takes? I killed—</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>V: </strong>Flechette. I need you to help me find L— Oracle. We can deal with...<strong>that </strong>later. Please. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>...okay. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>M: </strong>I didn’t do it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>V: </strong>I want to believe you, Myrmekes. You understand that I can’t right now. </em>
</p><p>[they lapse into silence, marching down the halls. Eventually, they come to Dr. Yamada’s room. ORACLE is in the room, rifling through the deceased filing cabinets. <strong>Sloppy on your part, really. I expected better from you.</strong> <strong>Then again, maybe you wanted to be caught.</strong>]</p><p>
  <em> <strong>M: </strong> <strike>LISA!</strike> </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>V: </strong>Codenames— </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>O</strong>: Hey, you three, where’s— </em>
</p><p>[Oracle stops, taking in the site of the three parahumans. <strong>Do you still blame her, even now?</strong>]</p><p>
  <em><strong>O</strong>: Why is my girlfriend in cuffs? <br/><br/><strong>V:</strong> One of her drones killed Clockblocker. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>O: </strong>You’re sure? You <strong>saw </strong>that it was one of her drones?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>V: </strong>Yes. It— it was pretty distinctive. We all saw it. </em>
</p><p><em><strong>O</strong>: Hm. Clever. </em>[She returns to the filing cabinet.]<em> You should uncuff her. </em></p><p>
  <em><strong>V: </strong>Oracle, she was caught <strong>red-handed</strong>—</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>VGhlIHRydXRoIG9mIHRvZGF5IGlzIHRoYXQgdGhlIGFuaW1hbHMgaGF2ZSB0b3JuIG9mZiB0aGVpciBsZWFzaGVzIGFuZCBhcmUgcnVubmluZyB3aWxkIGluIHRoZSBzdHJlZXRzLiBCcm9ja3RvbiBpc24ndCBhIGNpdHksIHJpZ2h0IG5vdzogaXQncyBhIGp1bmdsZSBvZiBkZWNheSBhbmQgcnVzdGVkIGlyb24sIGZvbGlhZ2Ugb2YgY29uY3JldGUgYW5kIGNhbm9weSBvZiBzdHJlZXRsYW1wcy4g</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>O: </em>
  </strong>
  <em>Velocity, <strong>think</strong>. If T— <strong>Myrmekes</strong> really was the killer, would she had let you cuff her? She has access to <strong>dozens </strong>of drones. For that matter, why would she even report the body? Trigger the lockdown? She could have done all of this remotely if she really wanted to. She has no logical motive for killing anyone in this building. And neither does Flechette.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>V: </strong>Flechette’s already killed someone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>O</strong>: … In self-defense?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>V</strong>: In defense of others. I hope.</em>
</p><p>[Flechette says nothing. <strong>Look at her. Look at her!</strong>]<em> <br/><br/><strong>V: </strong>I can’t just uncuff either of them, Oracle. Not until I know for <strong>sure. </strong></em></p><p>
  <em><strong>O: </strong>Okay. Allow me to prove it’s not them, then.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F</strong>: Have you found something, Oracle?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>O: </strong>I’m about to. Because we’ve all been lead on a <strong>merry </strong>fucking goose chase. There’s a question we keep getting distracted from: <strong>Who killed Yamada? </strong> Since someone was using Ta— Myrmekes drones to make us believe Oni Lee was in the building, it’s pretty safe to say the ABB aren’t behind this, and I’d wager it’s not the Empire either. Neither of them would have anything to gain from killing Yamada— hell, they probably don’t even know who she is, PRT therapists don’t advertise their existence. Security breaches and all that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>Dauntless believed it could have been for information.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>O: </strong>If they wanted information from Yamada, why kill her? They had about an hour with her, more or less. For that matter, interrogating her in the middle of the Rig? Ensuring the might of the entire Protectorate would come down on them? Unless someone was particularly desperate, it’s a suicidally stupid move. No, Yamada wasn’t killed for the sake of obtaining information. She was killed for <strong>having </strong>information. She learned <strong>something </strong>about <strong>someone </strong>on this damn base, and they killed her for it. You wanna know how I know that? Ask me how I know that. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>V: </strong>Please, Oracle. Enlighten us.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>O: </strong>Where’s her <strong>purse? </strong></em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>M: </strong>...Shit.</em>
</p><p>RG8gdGhleSBub3QgdW5kZXJzdGFuZCBob3cgbmVjZXNzYXJ5IG15IGFjdGlvbnMgd2VyZT8gVGhhdCB3ZSBtdXN0IHN0b3Agd2l0aCB0aGVzZSBiYW5kYWdlcyBhbmQgYWlsbWVudHMtIHRoYXQgd2UgbXVzdCBwaWNrIHVwIG91ciBzY2FscGVscyB0byBjdXQgb3V0IHRoZSBpbmZlY3Rpb24gYXQgaXRzIHNvdXJjZT8g</p><p><em><strong>O: </strong>Yeah. The murderer took it, along with her phone, her driver’s license, and everything else. There’s <strong>no </strong>reason for someone who’s a powerful enough Master, Stranger, whatever— to get on the Rig without <strong>anyone </strong>knowing to take something as small as her purse unless they were trying to conceal evidence. Ergo, the murderer believes something on her phone, I’d guess, would expose them. Now, will you take off those cuffs so that they can help me look for more evidence? <br/><br/></em>[Velocity hesitates. Then he moves to uncuff the two wards. <strong>He’s watched his friends and wards die. Because you decided it was <em>necessary. </em>Why did you do this to him? Where did all of your admiration go?</strong>]<br/><br/><em><strong>F: </strong>What are we looking for, Oracle? </em></p><p>
  <em><strong>O: </strong>Anything out of place, really. I haven’t had much luck with her filing cabinets. Maybe there’s… I don’t know. There has to be <strong>something. </strong></em>
</p><p>[Myrmekes stares at the gouges in the wall and the bloodstains. <strong>And then there’s Taylor. You know, I was starting to think that maybe she’d be a good influence on you. Another connection. But you blame her as well, don’t you? She as well as everyone else within a fifty-mile radius of the event. Even me. You think it all ended when you killed Yamada. But that’s not true. It happened when you made the choice to answer that call by yourself. You made that choice. Before Echidna, before everything. You, and you alone.</strong>]</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>If… if we’re dealing with someone who Yamada was seeing...then they have to be a thinker or a tinker, right? Cause they were able to mess with Myrmekes tech.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>M: </strong>Not necessarily. All they would need is one of my helmets and a connection.</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>V: </strong>Don’t you have safeguards in place?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>M: </strong>I gave access to all the Wards and Protectorate personnel. In case I was ever knocked out and my drones were still needed. </em>
</p><p><strong>V: </strong>Mh. Makes sense, but <br/><br/>V2Ugd2VyZSBjaGFyZ2VkIHdpdGggdGhlIHNhY3JlZCBkdXR5IG9mIHByb3RlY3RpbmcgdGhlIGlubm9jZW50LCBhbmQgeWV0IEkgd2hvIHdvdWxkIGdvIGZ1cnRoZXIgaW4gdGhpcyB0aGFuIGFueSBvdGhlciBpcyBkZWVtZWQgYSBtb25zdGVyLiBEZWVtZWQgbWFkLiAgDQo=</p><p><em><strong>M: </strong>I know. </em>[A bitter laugh.] <em>Convenient. </em></p><p>
  <em><strong>V: </strong>I didn’t say that.</em>
</p><p><em><strong>M: </strong>You didn’t have to. </em>[Myrmekes turns to stare at the doctor’s ripped chair and the accompanying white table, staring at the patient’s own seat, still upright. She tilts her head. <strong>Are you just done talking to me, then?</strong>]</p><p>
  <em><strong>M: </strong>Wouldn’t the killer have had to have been facing Yamada in order to stab her?</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>F: </strong>Yes. Stab wound didn’t go all the way through. Your point?</em>
</p><p><em><strong>M: </strong>Well, there’s only one entrance. If we’re assuming they came in normally, and...immediately killed her, and then carved the message in the wall… and then killed the security team… <br/><br/></em>[She leans down and plucks at a small slash in the fabric of the chair, nearly imperceptible]<br/><br/><em><strong>M:</strong> Why did they cut the chair?</em></p><p>
  <em><strong>O: </strong>...I’m so fucking stupid.</em>
</p><p>VGhleSBjYWxsIG1lIGluc2FuZS4gDQo=</p><p>[Oracle goes over to the patient's chair, flips it over, and begins tugging at the fabric. Velocity comes over to assist, and the two manage to find a small incision on the underside of the carriage. Oracle reaches in and pulls out a small, black voice recorder. <strong>I’m surprised you didn’t check the other chair, honestly. Then again, you were...distracted.</strong>]</p><p>
  <em><strong>O: </strong>She was recording her sessions with us… </em>
</p><p>[Oracle hits play on the device. It crackles. <strong>Damn it, <em>talk </em>to me. I’m trying to help you. To understand. Isn’t that what you want? To be understood?]</strong></p><p>
  <em><strong>A</strong> (from the recorder): Dr. Yamada. I— I need your help. Please. This stays between us. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>VGhlIGRlZmluaXRpb24gb2YgaW5zYW5pdHkgaXMgZG9pbmcgdGhlIHNhbWUgdGhpbmcgb3ZlciBhbmQgb3ZlciBhZ2FpbiBkZXNwaXRlIGdldHRpbmcgdGhlIHNhbWUgcmVzdWx0cy4NCg==</em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Y</strong> (from the recorder): Of course, Armsmaster. How can I help you?</em>
</p><p>[<strong>Tell me why, Colin.</strong>]</p><p>
  <em><strong>M: </strong>No. </em>
</p><p><strong>[Tell me why you did it.</strong>]</p><p>
  <em> <strong>ERROR.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>ERROR.</em> </strong>
</p><p><em>ERROR.</em><br/><br/>FILES CORRUPTED. SHUTTING—</p><p>
  <strong><em>       D</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong><em>                                                        O</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong><em>                                                                                                                     W</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong><em>                                                                                                                                                                                N</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>tell me how to save you.</em> </strong>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>In programming, Base64 is a group of binary-to-text encoding schemes that represent binary data in an ASCII string format by translating the data into a radix-64 representation.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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